#maybe with a dash of the stranger or the dark

[leodoesnt]

deranged hot take:

the Unknown from the Glasgow Willy Wonka Experience is just emo Michael from the Magnus Archives

I think they should be firends

[taeyongdoyoung]

cherry

summary: you are looking for danger to distract you from your dark thoughts but you find something you weren't even hoping for... pairing: seungcheol x reader genre: strangers to lovers, smut warnings: stranger danger, mentions of alcohol, spiked drink (not by cheol !), lying, swearing, non-consensual touching, bar setting, morally grey characters, unsafe drinking practices, danger/risk kink, threatening, brat!reader/brat tamer!cheol, kissing, unprotected car sex, pet names, attachment/abandonment issues, lowkey angst with a happy ending, roleplaying as strangers author's note: okay so...my initial idea was a fun night out with cherry-flavoured kisses but i got carried away and delved more into the realm of troubled psychology, proceed with caution & please stay safe out there! 🍒 word count: 2.3k playlist

Seungcheol watches the situation from afar, somewhat concerned for a total stranger. You are staring at your third cocktail for the night, absent-mindedly playing with the maraschino cherry on top of it. The guy talking to you looks sketchy from a mile away but for some reason, you keep entertaining his advances. Or rather…you feel unsafe to outright reject him?

For now, Seungcheol decides to observe only. Maybe he's making an assumption based off the guy's looks, which isn't very nice of him. Then, he notices you excusing yourself to go to the bathroom. He wonders if the alcohol is starting to affect you. Seungcheol is about to go back to his own glass whiskey when he notices something even more suspicious. He swears he sees the creepy guy putting something white in your drink! Seungcheol's grip on his glass tightens.

Everyone seems to be lost in their own business. Should he intervene? Would things escalate? Should he attack the weird guy trying to drug you? But then again, he has no proof for what he saw other than his honest word. You come back from the bathroom and Seungcheol is on the verge of approaching, when he overhears your conversation.

"I don't wanna drink more," you mumble dizzily. "I've had enough."

"Come on, don't be such a party-pooper," the creep tries to convince you.

You shake your head in disagreement and that total shithead of a man has the audacity to bring the spiked glass towards your lips in an attempt to force you to drink.

Oh, hell nah! Seungcheol can't watch this any longer and dashes in, gripping the guy's wrist mid-air, causing the drink to spill.

"The lady said no," he hisses.

"Yah, why are you butting in our business? I know what my girlfriend wants," the beast grunts.

"I'm not your girlfriend," you say in a slightly louder, more confident voice.

"Pfft, babe, don't be like that," the guy loops an arm around your neck, but even in your drunken state, you attempt to get him off you.

"We literally met tonight. Leave me alone already," you reply, obviously emboldened by Seungcheol's presence.

"You heard what she said," Seungcheol insists. "Leave her the fuck alone."

His fiery gaze seems powerful enough to burn holes in the wicked guy's soul. Wanting to avoid a physical confrontation, the creep finally gives up and leaves the bar.

You breathe out a sigh of relief.

"Thanks for your help," you mumble nervously. "I was trying to get rid of him all night."

"He spiked your drink," Seungcheol informs you suddenly. "I probably wouldn't have intervened otherwise."

"Shit…" you drawl but you don't look particularly worried about that discovery.

"Why did you drink alone if you didn't want attention? And why did you leave your drink unsupervised?" Seungcheol can't resist asking all these questions.

"Apparently, it wasn't unsupervised, if you were watching," you respond only to the second inquiry.

"You shouldn't do that. It's…dangerous. What if I hadn't seen it? Do you have any idea what might have happened if I wasn't here on this particular night and if I hadn't decided to step in?" Seungcheol is starting to get angry.

"Do you want a reward or something?" you scoff sarcastically. "You don't know me. Maybe I was looking for danger."

Oh, you were like that. Self-destructive tendencies. A bit of a brat. Nothing he hasn't seen before. And yet…

"There are better ways to feel an adrenaline rush," Seungcheol explains patiently.

"Do you want me to buy you a drink?" you ask out of nowhere. "Will that get you to stop fucking lecturing me?"

Ouch. Nobody speaks to him that way. Ever. Nobody who knows him anyway…

"I can afford my own drink, thank you very much," Seungcheol rolls his eyes. "But no more drinks for you."

He doesn't know what possesses him to do that but he grabs your wrist and leads the way towards the door. He usually isn't like that but your ungrateful behaviour is so frustrating he feels the overpowering urge to teach you a lesson.

"What are you doing?" you whisper in a small voice, as he opens the door to his car and pushes you inside, locking the door. What the fuck?!

"Showing you what happens when you drink alone and leave your drink out of sight," Seungcheol growls.

"W-what?" you mumble and the actual fear in your eyes stuns him.

"Are you scared?" he laughs maniacally and leans in, facing you from up close. "Imagine what might have happened if you actually got drugged by that guy. Imagine if-"

"P-please, s-stop, I g-get it," you cry out, eyes tearing up in terror.

Seungcheol realizes his point was driven home and lets go of you, unlocking the car door.

"Get out of here," he orders.

You blink in shock and drunkenly stumble out of his car. No goodbyes are exchanged. The encounter so unusual, intense and emotionally charged that a goodbye would only mar it with its trifling nature.

A couple of nights pass and Seungcheol can't bring himself to go to his favourite bar. What was once a relaxing activity after a long day at work now seems like it would be a stressful ordeal. What if he sees you again? Drinking alone, purposefully putting yourself in danger?

He tries to convince himself that it doesn't matter. You're just a stranger he'd probably never cross paths with again. And yet…his curiosity gets the better of him.

Seungcheol returns to his favourite bar. Dreading (or perhaps hoping) that he'd find you there. And just like that, as if his thoughts manifested your appearance, he sees you.

Only this time, you are not alone, but with a girl friend who seems very happy to be spending time with you. Another major change is that you are gripping your drink tightly, not letting it out of sight. Good. Even though you're with a friend, it looks as if you learned your lesson from that bittersweet night.

Seungcheol wonders if he should approach you. Despite the fact that his intentions were noble, his behaviour back in his car was near abominable. He decides against ruining your fun night with your friend and tries to focus on his own drink, slowly sipping from it.

However, you seem to have a different plan.

"Long time no see," you greet him, as if he's an old friend and not a complete stranger. "You haven't been here recently."

"I didn't want to catch you getting yourself into trouble again," Seungcheol reminds you.

"I've been good," you promise, but for some reason he can't fully believe you. "And besides, what does it matter to you? We don't even know each other's names."

Are you asking for his name, then?

"Seungcheol," he introduces himself calmly. "I would say it's nice to meet you but I don't lie."

"Harsh," you chuckle. "I'm Y/N. I love lying, so…nice to meet you."

"Where did your friend go?" Seungcheol suddenly notices, not paying attention to your little jab.

"She went home to her boyfriend."

"So, you're drinking alone again?" he points out.

"I'm here with you, aren't I? So, I'm not alone," you explain logically.

"You don't even know me," Seungcheol shakes his head, as if to convince you that he's not trustworthy enough.

"I know your name, though. Doesn't that count for something?" you tilt your head to the side, taking a bold sip of your cherry-flavoured cocktail.

"You haven't changed," he groans bitterly. "You're just pretending to be more responsible to grab my attention."

"I thought I already had your attention," you grin flirtatiously.

"You do," Seungcheol admits reluctantly. "But that doesn't mean I'll act on it."

"What if I want you to?" you bat your eyelashes at him.

"You're insane, you know that?" he laughs.

"Aren't we all?"

And Seungcheol loses every last ounce of self-control he prided himself in usually possessing. He kisses you savagely, conquering your mouth with his own. The need to have you, to wipe that bratty smile off your face is overpowering.

You kiss him back just as eagerly, ravaging his lips.

"Let's get out of here," he suggests. Only this time, the words carry a different meaning from when he kicked you out.

Seungcheol leads you to his car again, too impatient to bother with finding hotels. It's so dark outside and he's parked at a place so empty and hidden that it gives you goosebumps. Not a soul in sight.

Perhaps, he is right. Perhaps, you are acting up, no self-preservation instinct in your body. But who cares? You've spent too long not feeling anything. This is the first time in a long while you've felt something so real.

There is no tenderness in the way he fucks you on the backseat of his car. It's as if Seungcheol makes it his mission to corrupt you even further, satisfying your reckless need for adrenaline.

"You're so sick, letting a stranger do this to you," Seungcheol grunts in your ear, as he rubs your pussy.

"You're not a stranger," you stand your ground, fully convinced this is normal behaviour.

"Knowing my name doesn't make this any better," his words are drowning in anger, but his actions are overflowing with the desire to pleasure you.

"What does this say about you, though?" you fight back verbally. "You're just as irresponsible as me."

"I. Need. To. Teach. You. A. Lesson," he punctuates with each thrust.

"Too bad I'm terrible at learning," you confess, scratching his back with your sharp nails.

"Say my name," Seungcheol demands.

"Seungcheol," you mumble obediently.

"Again."

"Seungcheol. Cheol. Seungcheol-ah," you repeat mindlessly.

"Good girl," he whispers.

"No, I'm not," you argue, biting his neck, while he's still fucking you viciously.

"I'll make you," Seungcheol promises and you are stunned by the assuredness in his deep voice.

"I'd like to see you t-" you fall apart beneath him before you can finish the word "try".

He truly ruins you so deliciously, making you forget everything that ever bothered you.

The only thing that remains in your mouth is the taste of whiskey mixed with the flavour of cherries.

Your first instinct is to run away. Every time you meet someone decent, you do that. Because if you don't, they'll leave you first. And you'd never let that happen again.

You start to put on your clothes hurriedly, attempting to flee the scene.

"Chérie..." Seungcheol pleads tenderly.

Fingers on the car handle, you hesitate upon hearing the gentle French endearment.

"What?" you ask despite yourself.

"Where are you going?"

"Doesn't matter. Did you think I'd stay?" at this point, being mean is a defense mechanism. Looking for danger, finding it and then running away.

Only Seungcheol is more dangerous than danger itself. Because you can see in his eyes that he cares.

A total stranger, you don't even know if you have anything in common. And yet...he cared enough to intervene that night. He cared enough to discipline you. He cared enough to give you just what you need.

But you are so afraid. That he'll start to care too much. And one day, he'll stop.

"I'm not done with you," Seungcheol stands firm, gripping your wrist. "I told you I'll make a good girl out of you, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," you confirm weakly. Too weak to fight him on it. Too weak to escape...

"Well, I'm a man of my word."

"And if I want to go?" you still try.

"You don't," Seungcheol pronounces with certainty.

"How do you know what I want?"

"Because we want the same thing."

He doesn't say what that is. But he's right.

You bury your head in his chest, allowing him to hold you tightly.

Somehow, this turns out to be not just what you wanted. But what you needed.

"I'll take care of you," Seungcheol vows. "I'll be so good to you."

And for some reason, you believe him.

You let him consume your darkness with his own. And bring your shared light to the surface.

Bonus:

~ A year later ~

That same bar where you met. A cocktail in hand. Your red dress. The dim lights.

"What's a bad girl like you doing in a nice place like this?" Seungcheol teases you, pretending to be a stranger.

Oh, how times change.

"Looking for love," you joke, as you slide the maraschino cherry into your mouth.

"You seem like the kind of woman who already has that," Seungcheol reminds you of the reality of your relationship.

"And how would you know what kind of woman I am?" you play along, enjoying this game far too much.

"Because of the ring on your finger," he points out.

Oh, right! You never take it off. You completely forgot how about you'd explain it in such a scenario.

"Careful, there. My fiancé is a very jealous man," you poke fun at Seungcheol.

"Is he, now?" your fiancé leans in. "What would he do if I did that?"

Seungcheol kisses you warmly but possessively. What starts as innocent turns more heated and passionate. Never before have you felt so safe and wanted.

"He'd probably kill you," you shake your head, gasping for air. "Lucky for you, you're him."

"I must be the luckiest man in the world," Seungcheol announces proudly.

"Not really," you jest. "Your fiancée is a bit of a brat."

"A bit?" he quirks an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe a lot. But she loves you very much," you admit honestly.

"Then, it's a good thing I love her, too," Seungcheol hugs you strongly.

You don't get the urge to run away anymore. Because this? This is better than any adrenaline rush.

"Watch me dance," you request mischievously.

"Oh, I will," he promises.

Seungcheol watches you at a close distance. Always concerned. Only this time, you're not a stranger. You're dancing freely, feeling protected from danger. Not keeping an eye on your drink. It's okay. He's here now to keep you out of harm's way. You allowed him to use his darkness to devour yours. But there is light, in this world, too. And light will always prevail.

The End

[urbeachboy]

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇

⋆˙⟡ — req : hey,, psst,, you got any.. leona kingscholar x reader..? with maybe.. a dab of fluff.. and maybe.. something with napping together.. a dash of yearning.. maybe.. (from whomever you desire).. plz and thank u.. also!! can i be 💀 anon?

⋆˙⟡ — synopsis : Leona Kingscholar does not have a soft spot. Not for his brother, for his sister-in-law, for his nephew, nor for anyone. And then you came along.

⋆˙⟡ — content : Leona Kingscholar (twisted wonderland) x gn!reader. Reader is a people pleaser. Cuddling. Kiss kiss fall in love!! Inexperienced Leona. Fluff. Lots of fluff. Some hints of angst.

You’ve always been a giver. It’s essentially instinctive- second nature, really.

Perhaps it started at the age of four, when you cried crocodile tears over a wounded bird. A bird that you had tried so desperately to save, yet alas, fate hadn't been so nice to poor little young you.

Or maybe rather, it was at the age of seven, when you had refused to step a single foot out the threshold of your room when your pet hamster, Squibbles, had passed away.

And it may have been the idea of losing anyone else- or standing by watching as someone else lost someone- that truly clung to you. That feeling of despair you felt like claws scraping down your back, all while the ugly dread clung to you like a leech, only truly letting go when you had ensured that nobody got hurt.

Maybe it was a bit selfish- just a small bit. For you knew best that you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself knowing you’d let someone down, even if they weren’t quite counting on you to keep them up.

So to say, Twisted Wonderland was a nightmare for you.

Little boys who thought themselves men, and men who thought themselves little boys. They scrambled, reaching for any semblance of control, for any semblance of comfort. 

You're not quite certain if it was the first overblot or the second, but by the fourth, you’d already made quite a preceding reputation for yourself. You’re not sure if there wasn’t anyone in Night Raven College who was not aware of your name or your game. I.E: Save the School from going up into flames once or perhaps even twice a month at times.

In fact, many people knew you quite well–with the becoming ribbon you twisted your striped tie into, and with your nature; approachable and sympathetic, it was difficult to not get acquainted with you on more levels than simply knowing. A few of these people? 

Ace Trappola, the boy from Heartslabyul with cards and tricks alike up his uniform sleeve.

Deuce Spade, a friend of Ace’s as well, also from Heartslabyul, and having quite an affinity to cauldrons, you think.

Jack Howl, what with all his ivory hair and sun-kissed skin, and that body he’d achieved through tons of rigorous training, no doubt.

Epel Felmier, with a Southern twang that you only ever hear sometimes- though you think it’s especially adorab–no! Very.. very manly. And he’s treated you to apple pie once, as well. Home-made, you think he said it was?

Sebek Zigvolt- you’re unsure how you’d managed to befriend him of all people, but it does not go to say that you enjoy his presence any less. His hair stuck up perpetually as if he had been struck by a lighting bolt, though he may as well be every time he’s asked about his dearest Liege.     

There’s also the strange horned man with dark hair and green eyes that pierce through your soul, but all he ever seems to want is a chat about architecture- mostly Gargoyles and Grotesques and all that- never your soul.

But as strange as he, Tsunotarou, may be–you find one is stranger. Leona. Leona Kingscholar. A prince, you’ve learnt. With his hair that you could call brunette, resembling black coffee, and his eyes like emeralds, which you’re sure he has a ton. 

You’re not sure why he acknowledges you at all, really, but it’d begun ever since after his overblot. It had begun slowly- surely, though-

First, he would fall asleep at the table you and your friends often occupied during lunch, and all of you far too afraid to wake him or make him budge. You found it funny how he always dozed off on the seat just next to yours- Grim’s reserved seat, upon not receiving which he would grow exasperated. He would soon quiet down when offered a seat on your shoulder (which he found much more comfortable than any seat, as irking as it was to have his tail thump against your face or the back of your head every now and again), however.

Then, he would get food for you. You’re not sure if you were to feel humiliated at the thought that he most likely assumed you have no money to get it yourself (he isn’t wrong–you don’t, because Dire Crowley is such a generous man), but it was admittedly nice to have a sandwich sitting on your plate when you got to your table. And a rather sleepy lion. Well, on second thought, would sleepy be the right word if he was already asleep?

And after that, he began speaking to you more. And, trust me on this–Leona Kingscholar does not speak to just anyone. Not the way he does with you, at least.

A tired groan that would escape his full lips as he looked up at you through hazy, lidded eyes. “..Herbivore,” he’d grumble, “Y’changed your hair.”

And…so you did. And no-one’s noticed (which is understandable, because it really isn’t a prominent change- you would barely know it unless you were really looking for it), up until…well…Leona.

Or maybe he’d notice the way you had decided to tie your tie into a bow this time instead. Like Epel (see, you always liked the way he tied it, though you could never get it right. So, your dear friend Epel had provided some assistance).

He’d tilt his head back, just barely skimming his eyes over it before turning his attention back to the very interesting wall. “Your tie’s different.” You would perk up, a smile painted on your lips. “It’s cute, right? I saw how Epel always did it, and I was like ‘aw, that’s cute’—only in my head, though, Epel would kill me if I said it out loud—and I wanted him to teach me, so I asked him, and he said Vil taught him and then he taught me anyways, and–”

“It looks stupid.”

So, obviously, he’s a real charmer. 

And, charmed as you were, you didn’t protest the first time he had wordlessly pulled you into his arms with his eyes still shut after you’d fortuitously disrupted a precious nap of his.

Then he did it a second time, a third, and a fourth.

Since then, it’s become sort of tradition; napping together. The two of you never speak of it, and you’re not certain if anyone else is aware about it at all, either. You think Leona likes it to stay that way.

You still don’t retort, don’t kick and squirm. It’s as if you’re able to see the child in him, the child that only wanted to be seen; to be known. To be acknowledged. What’d he ever do, but ask for love? And is love, if requested of one of the same blood, far too much to ask for?

So you humour him. As you are right now. You’re in Savanaclaw, barely tangled in Leona’s sheets, in Leona’s room, with the aforementioned clinging to you with a generous amount of space (ie: a hair’s breadth, which is technically still generous in terms of Leona) between the two of you.

It’s about six, sunset; the sun is low but you can see the glowing saffron of it just peeking out from behind the rocky mountains, almost shy to show its true self- its true colours, the neon orange as opposed to the usual blinding yellow-white. You think it’s somewhat like Leona, and the thought makes you chuckle to yourself.

“Mmh,” Leona groans, and the sound is a low rumble in his chest. “What’s so funny, Herbivore?” he murmurs, his voice hushed and husky. It’s a wonder how his braids never get messed up by the different positions he sleeps in, every which way his body contorts for the ultimate resting experience. You wish you had half of his privileges- you can’t blame him, you’d lounge around, too, if in his shoes.

You only shake your head at his words, not an ounce of sleep in your eyes (much unlike his), and a small smile playing on your lips. “Nothing. You just…remind me of the Sun.”

He’s silent. His breathing is slow, gentle—he fell asleep. Again. You let out a sigh, playfully rolling your eyes.

His skin is sun-kissed, his eyes (when open), most would say are like jades or emeralds or some other materialistic, shiny object. You, on the other hand, believe they’re like the prickly bushes that, albeit hurt much to get through, bear beautiful blossoms once you’re past the thorns.

His hair is like honey, some parts are darker and some are lighter- maybe it’s more like caramel? Either way, it’s something sweet. And silky. You reach a hand out, beginning to gingerly comb your fingers through his hair.

He stirs then, reaching out just like you, wrapping an arm around your waist. You’re almost afraid he’s woken up, or is in the process of doing so, but his eased shoulders and relaxed expression says otherwise. Leona’s always tense when he’s awake. Even if he doesn’t realise it, his jaw is clenched.

Your smile widens. You curl your fingers into his hair, humming a gentle tune ‘neath your breath. Your eyes continue to rove over him, landing on his lips. His upper lip is fuller, darker. He’s beautiful. He’s beyond beautiful, you can barely describe it in words.

Should one feel such a way for a friend? If you could even begin to consider Leona a friend, that is.

You don’t think so.

“Like what you see?” You almost jump out of your skin, or perhaps go tumbling down the bed if it weren’t for his almost vice-like grip around your waist.

You blink in surprise, taking a bit to compose yourself. You see how Leona maintains his previous expression, though his lips—his very pretty lips—are quirked up at the corners. “You were awake this whole time?” you question, a bit frantically. After all, it would be quite flustering to know that a friend(?) had caught you all but checking them out.

He hummed. That’s a maybe. And then he’s silent again.

…Does he want you to sleep? Usually he’d just chastise you to stop moving, stop breathing so loud.

He doesn’t now.

Maybe he.. wants to talk?

You swallow your spit, your eyes lingering over his face, before beginning earnestly; “You’re very pretty.”

He opens both eyes at that. You absolutely must be in a World-Record book now. Both of his eyes, like lily-pads. Submerged in the water, so close to drowning and yet, holding something so beautiful within. A lotus; tender, soft.

Leona doesn’t look surprised in any usual way, but that’s because he’s Leona, and he’s far from usual. He snorts, keeping his eyes, half-lidded, on you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you respond decidedly.

Silence falls over the two of you like a veil once more. This time, it isn’t so comfortable. His eyes are glued to your face. They drift just slightly lower than your eyes, and they’re, you think, on your lips. Like yours were once on his.

Your tongue subconsciously darts out to swipe at the supple flesh there, wetting it almost like it grew drier than the desert just from his glare alone.

It’s silent, still. You glance away for a second, then back at him, and then you get an idea. You snicker and tilt your head, peering up at him. “You wanna kiss?”

It’s smart, you decide. If he declines and assumes you’re weird (which is likely), it’ll just be a joke. And if he accepts? Jackpot.

He quirks an eyebrow at you, his gaze dragging back up to your eyes.

You’re awfully nervous, you hope Beastmen can’t smell those sorts of things (obviously they can’t—they don’t smell fear, for god’s sake. They’re not demons). You, in turn, raise an eyebrow towards him as well, in hopes of seeming a bit more in control of yourself than you truly were.

Then, Leona huffs. At least, you assume it’s a huff, because it sounds halfway through a huff and a small laugh. You hope he’s not laughing. It’s not that ridiculous of a question to ask, is it?

It is. Whatever.

“What if I do?” You notice he’s completely dropped the ‘Herbivore’ gag, and you’re not sure if you should feel grateful or not. You don’t find yourself having much time to dwell on that, however, for his words peak your interest far more. “Then you should do it,” you test your limits.

He only stares at you. Like a big cat waiting to pounce. You assume he is—that’s what lions do, don’t they? They watch, wait for a moment of weakness.

Your brow twitches.

Then they strike.

Leona leans in quicker than he could call any human being who evidently eats and enjoys eating meat a ‘Herbivore’, pressing his lips against yours (though it’s somewhere between that and smashing his lips against yours).

One hand of his goes up to your chin, the other resting on your waist, still.

He’s inexperienced, that much is easy to tell. You’re not sure why you’d expected him to not be inexperienced. Him. Leona Kingscholar. Infamous for shutting out anyone and everyone who got a millimetre too close.

He’s haphazard and yet it still feels nice, likely because his lips are just naturally made for kissing or something of the sort. They move nicely against yours, and occasionally, the two of you apaty your lips a bit and your teeth clink against eachother’s, and you shoot each-other a glance. A light-hearted glance, as if you’re about to burst into silent laughter.

That’s just what it is, actually. For something so intimate, the atmosphere is so light-hearted. With the half-draped curtains casting bold shadows on your frames in turn, and still leaving space for you to see the Sun (if you were to turn around and look through the window, but with Leona’s lips attached to yours, you’re not sure he’d make that very possible) only showing itself an inch, a little more than halfway below the mountain, and a little less than fully below the mountain.

Leona tilts his head, pulling your face closer to his (almost tugging, really). He seems to forget himself, seems to forget how to be gentle and nice. The only way you can tell he’s apologetic is by the way his grip immediately loosens by a lot, and the pad of his thumb subtly traces along your jawline, rubbing soft circles.

You tap on his shoulder when you feel you’re a few ways from losing your breath, and he seems to get the memo, parting from you with a sigh from his side, and a gasp from yours. His hands don’t leave you, though. Your hands that had settled on his shoulders a while ago hadn’t left there, either.

Leona only stares at you. Not like Leona Kingscholar stares at everyone, no—not sharp and unbothered, finding anyone’s presence to be a nuisance—but like Leona stares at you. Tender and gentle.

His nose twitches. And for the first time, you see a smile on his lips that doesn’t mean bad news. A smile that isn’t filled with malice or vicious intent.

A genuine smile.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who’s like the fuckin’ Sun.”

⋆˙⟡ — a/n : i’m so sorry for not posting often!! i’ve been super busy irl but i promise i’ve been working on stuff 😞

⋆˙⟡ — NOT proofread — wordcount : ?

[humaling]

Hope Is A Dangerous Thing To Have.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick came back a different man. after weeks of silence and indifference, you find a locket in his cot—a reminder that maybe not everything is lost.

warnings: very angsty!! mentions of torture, the usual hunger games

word count: 9.4k

author's note: very angsty. hopeful ending tho. i feel absolutely depressed since i was broken up with and needed a way to cope so i wrote this

How do you grieve someone who still breathes? Who still walks beside you, whose laughter drifts through the corridors like the tide, whose scent lingers in the air like salt on the breeze? How do you mourn a soul that hasn’t left—only drifted too far from shore to reach?

You search for him in the waves of memory, in the warmth that once lived in sea-green eyes now as distant as the horizon. Those eyes used to anchor you, a harbor of safety in the storm. Now they are nothing but glass—cold, unreadable, unfeeling.

You tell yourself to wait. Tides change. Currents shift. He will come back to you. But as the days melt into weeks, the shoreline erodes beneath your feet.

And in the quiet hours, when the ocean is still and your thoughts are too loud, the truth creeps in like a rising tide.

What if the man you love has already drowned?

You sit in the farthest corner of District 13’s massive cafeteria, a space large enough to hold a thousand soldiers. The wall behind you is cold and unyielding, pressing against your back like a ghost of something long gone. You feel just as hollow.

Around you, people gather in clusters, voices weaving together in conversation, laughter spilling from their lips as if there isn’t a war raging beyond these walls. As if their world hasn’t already been splintered apart.

To your right, Primrose Everdeen speaks softly, her voice carrying the weight of quiet sorrow. She tells you something about the medical bay—about Peeta—but the words barely reach you. They drift past like foam on the surface of the water, light and inconsequential, while you are caught in the undertow, dragged somewhere deeper. Somewhere darker.

Your mind is tethered to someone across the room.

Bronze hair, sea-green eyes—the color of the ocean at dawn, just before the sun touches it. The color of home.

You know what that skin feels like beneath your fingertips, warm and smooth, shifting over muscle that tenses like a pulled fishing net. You know the ridges of his scars, carved into him like the grooves of driftwood battered by relentless waves. The roughness of his palms, the gentleness of his hands—hands that once traced circles over your skin as if mapping out a place to return to.

You know he sleeps best when sprawled out, like a starfish on wet sand, limbs stretched wide to keep the nightmares at bay. That he hoards the blankets like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to driftwood. That he needs exactly five pillows when he sleeps alone, building a fragile fortress against the dark. That his fingers move with effortless precision when tying a knot, quick and deft, like a fisherman who has done it a thousand times before.

And you remember his laughter—the deep, rich timbre of it, rolling over you like the tide. You remember the way his voice drops to a lower octave when he wants something, as steady and unshakable as the ocean in a storm.

You remember everything.

And yet, right now, he feels like a stranger.

Maybe he is a stranger. Maybe that’s all he’s ever been. A ghost of someone who drowned long ago. A boy lost at sea, swept too far by currents neither of you could fight. A stranger with sea-green eyes that once cradled the sunlight and now hold nothing but the vast, endless cold of the deep.

Your heart sinks. Not breaks—it’s already done that. It shattered three weeks ago in the medical bay, splintering like a ship dashed against jagged rocks. His gaze—once warm, once yours—turned to ice. His voice—once a melody—lashed at you like saltwater in an open wound, venom laced between every syllable.

And now, whatever is left of your heart sinks further, past your ribs, past your stomach, past anything human, until it is nothing but flotsam on a restless tide.

You never thought it was possible to mourn the living. To grieve someone whose heart still beats, whose hands still move, whose voice still carries. But here you are, swallowing salt, lungs filling with something heavier than water. Wearing a jumpsuit that doesn’t fit quite right. Picking at food that tastes like sand. Sitting in a dim, lifeless room, playing babysitter.

Loss upon loss, and yet—somehow—there’s still more to lose.

~

“They’re here.”

Katniss’ voice ricochets off the walls, sharp and breathless. You snap your head up instantly, fingers freezing around the knot you were tying. She stands in the doorway, chest heaving, breath ragged like she’s been running—or like the weight of those two words is too much to bear alone.

You stare, pupils blown wide, the meaning slipping through your fingers like grains of sand before she speaks again, firmer this time.

“They’re back.”

The words crash over you like a wave, and suddenly, you’re moving.

Your body surges forward before your mind can catch up, feet pounding against the cold floors, the world narrowing to a single thought. Finnick. He’s back. He’s here. He’s alive.

Finnick is alive.

You don’t look back to see if Katniss follows. You don’t hear anything but the rush of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart like a war drum. The world around you is a blur of gray walls and fluorescent light, too bright, too sterile, too detached from the wild chaos inside you.

You shove past people in the hall, muttering apologies you don’t really mean, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The scent of medicine and metal seeps into your lungs, and somewhere ahead, voices carry through the air—familiar, distant, pulling you forward like a rip current.

Your heart slams against your ribs, pounding like waves against jagged rocks, relentless and unforgiving. The roar of blood in your ears muffles everything else, reducing the world to a single, all-consuming thought—Finnick. Finnick, who is here. Finnick, who is alive. Finnick, who will be in your arms again, where he belongs, where he has always belonged.

You think about the words you will say when you finally reach him, when your hands find his skin, when the unbearable distance between you ceases to exist. You will tell him that you love him, that you will never leave him again, not for anything, not for anyone. You will tell him that you are sorry, that you tried, that you fought, that you did everything in your power to bring him back before they could break him. You will tell him that District 13 is no better than the Capitol, that their president is nothing but another tyrant wrapped in the illusion of revolution, that this place is suffocating, a prison disguised as salvation.

But then you see him, and everything inside you goes still.

He sits on the edge of the medical bed, his back turned to you, his shoulders hunched in a way that feels entirely wrong. The sharp curve of his spine is more pronounced, his posture heavy with something you cannot name. A nurse stands beside him, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm, but he does not move, does not acknowledge her, does not seem fully present in his own body. There is something unnatural in the way he holds himself, something that unsettles you, that makes your stomach twist in a sick, sinking way.

You try to tell yourself that this is normal, that exhaustion clings to him like seaweed tangled around an anchor, that of course he is different after everything he has endured. You tell yourself that the unease slithering through you is nothing more than hunger, that six hours without food is enough to make your body feel strange, that the nausea building inside you has nothing to do with the way his head remains bowed.

You force yourself to push the feeling down, to breathe past the doubt and the fear clawing at the back of your mind.

“Finnick.” His name leaves your lips on an exhale, soft and desperate, like the rush of air from a drowning man finally breaking the surface.

He turns at the sound of your voice, and the relief that crashes over you is instant, a tide that swallows every doubt, every hesitation, every ache you have carried since the moment he was taken. You barely register the stiffness in his movements before your body is closing the distance, arms wrapping around him, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as though he might slip through your grasp if you let go. The scent of antiseptic clings to him instead of salt, the sterile air of the medical bay stripping him of the warmth you have always known, but it does not matter. He is here. He is real.

“You’re really here,” you whisper against the curve of his neck, voice breaking under the weight of emotion pressing against your ribs. “I thought—” But the words catch in your throat, lost to the sheer relief of having him in your arms again.

His body remains rigid beneath your touch, his muscles locked so tightly that you can feel the tension humming through him like a wire stretched too thin. The longer you hold him, the more you become aware of the way he does not lean into you, the way he does not return your embrace.

A frown tugs at your brows as you slowly pull back, hands settling gently on his shoulders, careful not to press too hard. Your eyes search his face, scanning every feature, trying to find something familiar, something safe, something that tells you he is still him. His jaw is set in a sharp line, his lips pressed together in a firm, unsmiling press. His brows are drawn, a deep crease forming between them, but it is not exhaustion that shapes his expression. It is not relief. It is something colder, something harder, something unrecognizable.

His eyes, the ones that once held warmth, the ones that once softened when they met yours, the ones that always carried the unspoken promise of home, are different now. The sea-green depths that used to hold so much tenderness have darkened, the waves receding, leaving nothing behind but cold, empty waters.

“Finnick?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as your thumb moves to brush against his cheek, aching to ground yourself in something, anything, that feels familiar.

The second your skin grazes his, he flinches.

The reaction is small, a brief, involuntary jerk, but it is enough to send ice flooding through your veins, enough to make the air in your lungs turn sharp and unforgiving. Your mouth parts, the words forming somewhere deep in your throat, but they never make it past your lips. What could you even say? What could you possibly say when the worst thing you have ever feared is unfolding right in front of you?

Before you can find an answer, before you can even begin to process the chasm opening between you, his hands press against your shoulders, and he pushes you away.

The force of it knocks you off balance, sending you stumbling back, feet tripping over nothing, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch yourself. The impact never comes. Someone catches you before you hit the ground, steady hands gripping your arms, but your mind barely registers the touch.

Finnick is already on his feet, his body moving with frantic, clumsy urgency as he rips the IV from his arm, the tubing snapping loose, blood welling in the space where the needle once sat. He does not seem to notice, does not seem to care.

Then he turns to you, and whatever remains of your world shatters into pieces so small, you know you will never be able to put them back together again.

There is no recognition in his gaze, no softness, no warmth, no love. There is only anger, sharp and seething, festering beneath the surface like a wound left to rot. There is only hatred, raw and consuming, filling the space where something else—something beautiful, something yours—used to be. There is only indifference, cold and unyielding, cutting through you like the tide swallowing the last breath of a drowning man.

“Finnick?” You call out again, your voice cracking as you struggle to regain your footing, your limbs trembling beneath the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. The distance between you feels vast, an ocean you cannot cross, a current too strong to fight against.

Your hands move frantically at your sides, grasping at nothing, unsure of what to do, what to say, how to make sense of what is unfolding in front of you. What do you do when the man you love—the man who once held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable—now looks at you as if you are nothing?

Finnick’s lips part, and the scoff that escapes is sharp, cruel, void of anything familiar. “Don’t act like you’re so glad to see me.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving, but it is the way his words land that truly destroys you. They slice through your heart without hesitation, leaving gashes so deep you do not know if they will ever heal. The coldness in his tone, the sheer venom laced between each syllable, is enough to send your stomach twisting violently, enough to make your breath hitch and your pulse stutter.

You shake your head, your throat tightening as you struggle to make sense of it, to piece together something—anything—that could explain why he is looking at you like you are nothing more than a stranger, an enemy, something to be loathed. “Finnick… I don’t—” The words falter on your tongue, because how do you ask why? How do you demand answers when you are too terrified to hear them?

His expression twists into something cruel, something mocking, something that makes the ground beneath you feel unsteady. “You don’t what?” he sneers, taking a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator toying with prey. “You don’t understand? You don’t get why I wouldn’t be happy to see you?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, the sound dripping with something bitter, something tainted. “That’s funny. You, of all people, pretending to be clueless.”

The words don’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense. He is here. He is alive. He is back. So why does it feel like you are losing him all over again?

“Finnick, please,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I did.”

His expression darkens, his eyes flashing with something unreadable before his lips curl into a smirk, but there is nothing warm about it. It is hollow, cruel, a mockery of the smiles you once knew. “You don’t know?” He scoffs again, shaking his head. “That’s rich. That’s really rich.”

You reach for him, a desperate attempt to find something familiar, something that will bring you back to the Finnick you know, the Finnick who once traced the lines of your palms like they held the universe, the Finnick who pressed sleepy kisses to your shoulder in the early hours of the morning, the Finnick who whispered that he loved you like it was the only thing that ever mattered. But the moment your fingers so much as brush his arm, he jerks away as if your touch burns him.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, thick and suffocating. “Why are you doing this?” The words are barely more than a breath, shaky and broken, but they are all you can manage.

Finnick’s jaw tightens, his hands clenched into fists at his sides before his eyes meet yours again, his gaze colder than you have ever seen it. The weight of it crashes over you like a tidal wave, dragging you under, deeper and deeper, until all you can feel is the crushing force of the words he says next.

“Because I hate you.”

Your breath catches. Your body goes still. The world around you seems to blur at the edges, fading into nothing but the space between you and him.

No.

No, he doesn’t mean that. He can’t mean that.

But there is no hesitation in his expression, no flicker of doubt, no trace of the Finnick you know beneath the loathing that twists his features.

“You left me,” he says, voice steady, but laced with something bitter, something sharp enough to cut. “You left me there to die.”

Your head shakes before you even realize it, rejection spilling from your lips as if saying the words would make them true. “No. No, I—” Your voice wavers, breaking apart at the seams, but you swallow down the panic rising in your throat. “Finnick, that’s not true. I would never—”

His laughter is quiet, mirthless, like the hollow echo of waves against a broken shore. “Liar.” He exclaims, running a hand through his hair as if the very sight of you is exhausting. “I know what we were. What you were.” His eyes darken, and the next words come like a final nail in the coffin. “You were using me.”

Your breath shudders out of you, unsteady and uneven, but the ache in your chest only worsens as he continues, unrelenting. “I was nothing more than a means to an end, wasn’t I?” His voice is eerily calm, his gaze cold and unreadable. “All of it—the whispers, the stolen moments, the way you looked at me like I was something worth saving—it was never real. You had a motive, and I was too much of a fool to see it.”

Your entire body feels like it’s trembling, but you force yourself to move, to step closer, to reach for him as if you can pull him back from whatever abyss they’ve shoved him into. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “That’s not true, and you know that.”

He flinches away from your touch. Not violently, not aggressively, but in a way that hurts even more. As if your hands on him are unbearable. As if you are unbearable.

Your heart clenches so tightly it feels like it might collapse in on itself. “Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You’re breaking my heart.”

For the briefest of moments, something flickers across his expression. Something fleeting, something fragile. But it’s gone before you can grasp onto it, swallowed by the tide of whatever poison they’ve fed him.

His lips part, but no words come, only the silence stretching between you, cold and merciless.

Tears slip down your cheeks, hot against the numbness settling into your bones. You shake your head, refusing to let this be real, refusing to accept that the boy who once held you like you were his whole world now looks at you like you are nothing more than a ghost of something he wishes he could forget.

“I would never leave you there to die.” Your voice is hoarse, raw, carved from something deeper than heartbreak.

But Finnick only looks at you like he doesn’t believe you.

Finnick exhales, slow and sharp, like he’s trying to hold something in—something dangerous, something volatile. His hands tremble at his sides, fingers twitching as if itching to lash out, to grab onto something, to make this feeling stop.

“They told me everything,” he murmurs, and there’s something distant about the way he says it, like he’s reciting a fact, like he’s just now realizing the full weight of it. “How you left me in that arena. How you saved yourself and let me suffer.” His sea-green eyes bore into you, darkened with something cruel, something unbearable. “I should’ve died there. I would’ve died there if I was lucky.”

Your throat tightens. His words are salt in an open wound, stinging, burning, seeping into the rawest parts of you. You shake your head, stepping closer, reaching out despite the way he flinches. “Finnick, please. That’s not true. You know that’s not true.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He won’t hear you. His voice rises, every syllable heavier than the last, suffocating in its weight. “You let them take me.” The accusation slices through the air, through you, straight to the marrow of your bones. “You let them drag me away, and now you think you can stand here and pretend like you care? Like you ever cared at all?”

“I do care,” you whisper, but it’s drowned out by the storm unraveling in front of you.

Finnick’s breathing grows unsteady, his body taut like a wire stretched too thin, fraying at the edges. His fists clench and unclench, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting something unseen, something warring inside of him. His shoulders tremble, his entire frame locked in battle with itself, with the ghosts clawing at his mind.

“Get away from me.” His voice is lower now, raw and laced with something just shy of a snarl. “I can’t—” He swallows thickly, his breath coming out harsh and uneven. “I can’t be around you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your limbs feel heavy, your skin ice-cold, but you force yourself to stand your ground. “Finnick, I’m not leaving you.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, fragile and desperate. “Not now. Not ever.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something you want to believe is hesitation, but before you can reach for him again, a firm hand clasps around your upper arm.

“Come on,” a voice urges—one of the soldiers, firm but not unkind.

You try to shake them off, to dig your heels into the floor, but Finnick’s gaze stops you in your tracks. The way his expression twists, the way his body shakes as his breathing grows erratic—it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

“Get her out of here,” another voice commands.

“No, wait,” you plead, struggling as the grip on your arm tightens, as another set of hands joins the first, dragging you back, forcing distance between you and him.

Finnick stumbles back, his chest heaving, his hands threading into his hair like he’s trying to rip something out of himself. His entire body quivers, like a wave cresting too high, about to break.

Your own body thrashes against the hold keeping you away from him. “Finnick, please, listen to me! It wasn’t like that! You have to believe me!”

But he isn’t looking at you anymore. He turns away, his breathing sharp, his entire frame locked in place as if afraid to move, afraid to break.

And then you’re gone—hauled through the doorway, dragged down the hall, your screams swallowed by the sterile walls of District 13.

The last thing you see before the doors shut is Finnick, hunched over, hands gripping his head, like he’s drowning in a tide he cannot escape.

~

You sat with Haymitch outside of Katniss’ room, the dim, sterile hall stretching endlessly in front of you. The air was thick with something suffocating, something you couldn’t name—grief, maybe. Or something worse.

Apparently, Peeta was in the same condition as Finnick. Hijacked. Twisted. Warped. Their minds were tampered with, their memories poisoned, their love rewritten into something unrecognizable. Snow had not only taken them—he had turned them into weapons, sharpened and honed for one singular purpose.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that Finnick despised you now, or the gnawing, gut-wrenching fear that the Finnick you once knew might never come back.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your knees to your chest. Your fingers curled and uncurled, your wrists rolling to shake off the numbness, to rid yourself of the ghost of his touch—the rigidness of his body beneath your hands, the way he flinched at your presence like you were something vile, something rotten. It made your skin crawl. Not because of him. Never because of him.

Because of what they did to him.

Because of the way you made him feel.

“It’s not your fault.” Haymitch’s voice cut through the silence, rough and low, but not unkind.

You turned your head to look at him, at the wreck of a man beside you. Haymitch looked like hell—more so than usual. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but beneath it, there was something else. A deep, quiet horror. Like he had seen this before. Lived it. Survived it, but barely.

You had heard the stories. What the Capitol did to him. What he endured in his games, and after.

Your throat tightened, a bitter laugh slipping out before you could stop it. “Should’ve been me.” Your voice was hoarse, raw from screaming, from pleading with someone who no longer wanted to hear it.

Haymitch scoffed, pulling a flask from God-knows-where, twisting it in his hands before taking a swig. “No, it shouldn’t have.” He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared ahead, gaze locked on something distant, something only he could see. “You wouldn’t have lasted long enough in there.”

Your jaw clenched, a protest forming on your tongue, but he cut you off before you could speak.

“You don’t have the mind for it. The will for it. You’d break faster than Peeta. Hell, maybe worse.” He finally turned his head, meeting your gaze, his gray eyes softer than you had ever seen them. It unsettled you more than his usual cynicism.

You sucked in a breath, tilting your head back against the cold, lifeless wall. Your eyes burned as you bit down on your lip, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape. Your heart ached, a deep, gnawing pain that felt like drowning, like being dragged under a current too strong to fight.

It was unbearable. Unyielding. You didn’t know how to deal with it. You weren’t sure you ever would.

Haymitch sighed, running a tired hand down his face before taking another sip. “It’s a process, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “But you need to hang on. For both of you.”

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, gripping the fabric so tightly it might tear. He was right. You hated that he was right.

And you hated that, despite everything, despite the venom in Finnick’s voice and the ice in his eyes, you would wait for him as long as it took.

~

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, shoulders squared, as if bracing for a fight that will never come. As if standing like this, standing strong, will keep you from falling apart.

Your gaze is fixed on Finnick’s chest, on the slow, steady rise and fall that proves he is still here, still breathing. He looks peaceful like this. Almost untouched by everything that has happened, everything that has been done to him.

But you know better.

His fingers twitch from time to time, grasping at something unseen, someone unseen. A phantom touch. A memory slipping through his grasp.

You stay where you are, unmoving, barely breathing, watching him from a distance. Is this what it will be now? Is this all you’ll have left? Watching him from afar, knowing the only time he’ll ever look peaceful is when he’s unconscious? Knowing that the moment he stirs, it’s because of the nightmares?

Something acidic rises in your throat, burning, bitter, unbearable. The taste of grief, maybe. The taste of something you cannot name, something that twists your insides and leaves you hollow. You swallow it down, but it lingers, coating your tongue, settling deep inside you.

You hate this. You hate all of it.

All you want is to be in his arms, to lay your head against his chest and pretend that the world isn’t burning above you. Pretend that nothing has changed. Pretend that he still loves you.

But you stay in the doorway, feet rooted to the cold, unforgiving ground. Watching from a distance. Because that is all you have now. This is all you have now.

Footsteps echo softly against the cold floor, breaking the silence that has settled around you like a heavy fog. The sudden sound startles you, your body tensing as you instinctively turn on your heel, your fists clenching at your sides, ready to strike if necessary. But the moment your eyes catch the familiar cascade of long auburn hair, your shoulders ease, the fight within you slipping away just as quickly as it had risen.

Annie stands a few feet away, hesitant but unwavering, a quiet understanding reflected in the softness of her expression. There’s no pity in her gaze—only recognition, as if she knows exactly what kind of storm is brewing inside you without you having to say a word. A small, tentative smile tugs at her lips, a gesture so simple yet filled with warmth.

"It’s been a while, hasn’t it?" she says, her voice gentle, lacking the weight of expectation. She isn’t here to force words from you or demand answers you don’t have the strength to give. She is simply here.

You study her for a moment, unsure how to respond, as if the simple acknowledgment of time passing feels like an admission of how much has changed. Eventually, you nod, the motion slow, measured. "Yeah, it has," you murmur, your voice carrying the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered questions.

Annie doesn’t waver, doesn’t take the hint to leave you to your silence. Instead, she steps forward, closing the space between you in a way that isn’t intrusive, only familiar. She settles beside you, mirroring your posture as she leans lightly against the wall, her presence steady and unshaken.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your gaze cautious, guarded. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t probe. She only offers a quiet reassurance that you hadn’t realized you needed.

"Relax," she murmurs, as if sensing the lingering tension coiled in your muscles. "It’s just me."

Her words should be meaningless, just a simple reassurance, but somehow, they carry weight. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tightness in your chest easing—if only just a little.

Annie doesn’t expect you to talk. She just stays, letting the silence stretch between you in a way that feels less suffocating, less lonely.

Annie stands beside you, silent at first, her fingers idly twisting at the fabric of her sleeve. The air between you is heavy, thick with unspoken words, yet neither of you rushes to break it. The weight of everything—of what’s happened, of what’s still happening—lingers between breaths, settling deep in the space where grief and exhaustion intertwine.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but steady, as if she has rehearsed the words in her mind too many times before. “They kept me locked in a room without windows.” She doesn’t look at you, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the present, lost in a memory she can’t escape. “At first, it was just isolation. No light, no sound. Just me and the walls. I don’t know how long they left me there before they started asking questions.”

You don’t say anything. You barely breathe.

“They didn’t care about me,” she continues, voice devoid of emotion, like she’s reciting something detached from herself. “They wanted Finnick. Wanted to know how much he knew, how much he’d be willing to trade for me.” Her fingers curl around the hem of her sleeve, twisting it tighter. “I told them he didn’t know anything, but they didn’t believe me. They kept saying he would talk if he knew what was happening to me. If he thought they’d kill me.”

A sick feeling crawls up your throat. You grip your arms, trying to steady yourself.

Annie exhales slowly, as if forcing the weight of those memories from her chest. “But they weren’t just trying to break him. They were breaking all of us.” Her voice tightens slightly, but she pushes on. “Johanna—she fought them at first. Wouldn’t give them what they wanted. They stripped her of everything, piece by piece, until she wasn’t sure who she was anymore.”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, trying to steel yourself against the wave of emotions threatening to pull you under.

“And Peeta…” Annie hesitates. “I never saw him, but I heard him. Sometimes, in the halls. The way he screamed… I knew they were doing something different to him. Something worse.” She finally looks at you, her green eyes filled with something raw, something fragile yet unbreakable. “They weren’t just hurting him. They were remaking him.”

A sharp, searing pain twists in your chest.

You shake your head, trying to will away the image of Peeta trapped in the Capitol, his mind being twisted into something unrecognizable. “And Finnick?” The question leaves your lips before you can stop it, your voice barely above a whisper.

Annie hesitates, and that hesitation alone is enough to make your stomach drop.

“When they realized they couldn’t break him, they made him believe something worse,” she says finally, her voice so soft it’s almost lost beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights. “They made him believe you left him there. That you abandoned him.”

The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“They told him you were never really on his side. That you used him. That he was nothing more than a tool to you.” Annie shakes her head, jaw tightening.

A sharp, visceral pain shoots through your chest, so intense that for a moment, you can’t breathe.

Annie notices. “I don’t believe it,” she says quickly. “And I don’t think—deep down—he does either. But they got inside his head. They took everything he was feeling and twisted it.”

Your vision blurs as a lump lodges itself in your throat. You’ve always imagined the worst, always wondered what they must have done to him, but hearing it like this makes it real. Makes it undeniable.

Your nails dig into your arms as you force the words out, your voice barely holding together. “I would never leave him.”

Annie’s expression softens, but there’s something pained in the way she looks at you. “I know that. You know that. But Finnick… Finnick isn’t himself right now.” She hesitates before adding, “That doesn’t mean he’s lost forever.”

But what if he is? What if the Finnick you love, the Finnick who loves you, is gone?

“I should have—” Your voice breaks, and you shake your head, unable to even finish the thought.

“There was nothing you could have done,” Annie says, her voice firm despite its softness. “Nothing any of us could have done.”

But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like you failed him. Like you lost him.

You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to keep the tears at bay. “I just want him back.” The words come out fragile, almost childlike. “The real him.”

Annie’s expression softens. “So do I,” she murmurs. “And I think, when all of this is over, he’ll find his way back.”

Neither of you speaks after that. There’s nothing left to say.

Instead, you both stand there, side by side, drowning in the weight of everything that’s been taken from you.

~

It has been a month since Finnick and the others were rescued. A month of waiting, of hoping, of slowly unraveling under the weight of what has been lost. Finnick and Annie were cleared after two weeks. Johanna still has one more week under observation. And Peeta—Peeta is making no progress at all.

You visit Annie and Johanna most often. It feels easier, in a way. Johanna makes jokes sharp enough to slice through your grief, her bitterness grounding you when you start to spiral. Annie doesn’t say much, but when she looks at you, there is an understanding in her gaze that makes it easier to breathe. Even in silence, she sees you. She sees the way you are trying to move forward, to convince yourself that there is still something ahead of you and not just the gaping void Finnick’s indifference has left behind.

But every conversation ends the same way. No matter how much you pretend, no matter how much you try to stitch yourself back together, you always end up right where you started—wallowing in the emptiness, drowning in the cold distance Finnick has placed between you. Every moment without him feels stretched thin, an unbearable ache that never eases. The man you love is right there, close enough to touch, but it might as well be miles. He does not look at you. He does not speak to you. And if he does, it is with an apathy that cuts deeper than any blade.

Sometimes, when the weight of it becomes too much, you visit Peeta. Maybe because you think if you can bring him back, there’s hope for Finnick too. Maybe because you need to see what the Capitol did to him—to both of them—to remind yourself that this isn’t your fault. But Peeta isn’t Peeta. He flinches when Katniss’ name is mentioned, his voice is sharp, and his words are laced with venom. And yet, all you can see is Finnick.

You see it in the way Peeta looks at Katniss like she is the enemy, the same way Finnick now looks at you. You see it in the way his hands curl into fists when she enters the room, the same way Finnick tenses whenever you are near. You see it in the way his voice is edged with something hollow, something broken, something that does not belong to him. And you remember. You remember the cold detachment in Finnick’s eyes, the way his hands no longer cradle your face but push you away, the way his words are no longer laced with warmth but with quiet, unshakable hatred.

It makes your skin crawl. Makes you want to run. Makes you want to claw at your own chest and rip out whatever it is inside you that still dares to hope. You wish this was just a nightmare, something fleeting, something you could wake up from. But there is no waking up from this. There is only time. And with every passing day, Finnick becomes less of the man you loved and more of a stranger wearing his face.

So you tell yourself that whoever came back isn’t him. That the Finnick you love is still somewhere out there, lost in the wreckage of what the Capitol did to him. That this man—the one who won’t meet your gaze, the one who does not say your name, the one who acts as if you are nothing—is an impostor. A hollow thing trying to be him. Because that is easier than accepting the truth.

Because the truth is, if Finnick is truly gone, you do not know how to keep going without him.

Maybe that’s why everything is starting to blur, the edges of the world dulling into shades of gray. Nothing feels sharp anymore, nothing feels real. You’ve stopped trying to move forward. Instead, you let the grief sink its claws into you, dragging you under, hoping—maybe even begging—that it swallows you whole. Anything to keep from waking up another day, from dragging yourself through the motions, from existing in a world where everything you do, everything you see, everything you feel is stained with the absence of him.

You speak less. See people less. The days pass without meaning, slipping through your fingers like sand. Most of your time is spent in silence, lying on the stiff mattress of your bunker, staring at the ceiling, waiting. For what, you don’t know. Maybe for Finnick. Maybe for something else. Maybe for nothing at all.

But no matter how much you try to numb yourself, no matter how much you try to pretend it doesn’t tear you apart, the truth still sits in the hollow of your chest, pressing against your ribs like a caged scream.

You don’t last like this forever. Although you wish you had. But Coin doesn’t let opportunities slip through her fingers, especially not when she sees potential. And you? You’re efficient. You know weapons, you know how to track, how to move unnoticed. That makes you useful.

So she forces you out of your bunker, shoving you into training, into preparation, until suddenly, you’re being sent out on expeditions. To hunt, to kill, to spy. It doesn’t matter. You don’t ask questions. You just get the job done. Because what else is there to do?

Of course, the others notice. Katniss has been trying to get you to talk, to tell her what Coin is making you do. You learn, unwillingly, that she’s being forced to make propaganda films to strengthen the revolution. The idea of it makes you want to laugh. What difference does a camera make when people are already dying?

But it’s Haymitch who’s the most persistent. And that surprises you.

At first, you assume it’s just boredom. He doesn’t have alcohol to drown himself in, so maybe he’s looking for something else to pass the time. But the more he seeks you out, the more you realize it’s something deeper. He watches you too closely, the way your hands stay clenched at your sides, the way you don’t sleep, the way you barely eat. He sees through you.

And he doesn’t like what he sees.

“Come on, sweetheart, we both know what she’s doing,” Haymitch mutters one day, cornering you outside the training room. “She’s using you up until there’s nothing left.”

You scoff, shouldering past him. “You say that like I have anything left to begin with.”

He doesn’t let you go so easily. His grip snags your wrist, firm but not forceful, just enough to make you pause. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” His voice is quieter now, but sharper. “You’re letting her turn you into something you don’t even recognize.”

You rip your arm free, glaring. “What do you care?”

Haymitch exhales roughly, raking a hand through his hair. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, he says, “Because I’ve been where you are. And it doesn’t end well.”

You freeze. Something tightens in your chest, but you shove it down, scoffing. “I’m not you.”

“No. You’re not,” Haymitch agrees. “But you’re on the same damn path.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You think if you throw yourself into this, if you bleed enough for the cause, it’ll make up for everything? That it’ll bring him back?”

Your stomach twists violently. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cuts in, relentless. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything? To watch the people you love get taken from you, piece by piece, until you don’t even know who you are anymore?” His jaw tightens, his eyes dark with something old and painful. “I drank myself into oblivion to cope. You? You’re letting Coin use you as a weapon, like that’s any better.”

His words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. Because you know he’s right. You’ve known it for a while now. But admitting it—saying it out loud—that’s something else entirely.

Your throat burns. “You don’t understand.”

“The hell I don’t.” Haymitch shakes his head, exasperated. “You were Mags’ girl. She would’ve died before letting you turn into this.”

Something inside you cracks at that. You whirl on him, rage and grief twisting together. “Mags is dead.”

“And so is Finnick, if you keep this up,” Haymitch snaps back. “Because when he finally does come back to himself, do you think he’s gonna recognize you? Or are you just gonna be another ghost?”

The words hit deeper than you want to admit. A cold, ugly truth settling in your bones.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because the anger, the bitterness, the grief—it’s all rising too fast, threatening to suffocate you. Haymitch sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not saying this to piss you off,” he mutters. “I’m saying it because someone has to.”

You swallow hard, looking away. “So what? You want me to stop?”

“I want you to remember who the hell you are,” Haymitch says. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna lose yourself completely. And I know for a fact Mags didn’t raise you to be some mindless soldier.”

The silence between you is heavy, filled with too many unspoken things. But for the first time in weeks, something inside you stirs. A flicker of something—doubt, regret, maybe even hope.

Haymitch doesn’t push you any further. He just exhales and steps back, giving you space to decide for yourself. “Think about it,” he says, before walking away.

And you do.

For the first time in a long time, you really do.

~

The underground bunker hums with quiet activity, a constant murmur of voices and the soft scuff of boots against the cold floors. The air feels heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of too many people forced into the same confined space. You should be paying attention, listening for updates, but none of it registers. It hasn’t in a long time. Your mind remains distant, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the dull ache of something deeper, something you don’t have the strength to name.

Your feet carry you forward without thought, drawn to a space you shouldn’t be seeking out. Finnick’s cot is just another part of the bunker, another piece of fabric stretched too thin over metal, indistinguishable from the dozens of others. And yet, you always find yourself looking for it, searching for some trace of the past, as if by sheer force of will, you might bring back what has already been lost.

The dim lighting catches on something small resting against the rumpled sheets. A glint of gold, barely noticeable but impossible to ignore. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, stopping you in your tracks before you even realize what it is.

Your fingers close around it almost on instinct, the cool metal familiar against your skin. You don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. The weight of it alone is enough to tell you that this is the same locket, the one you once traced with your fingers on nights when the world felt too vast, too cruel. The one that held a piece of you and a piece of him.

The clasp resists when you try to open it, as if the locket itself is reluctant to reveal its secret, but after a moment, it gives way. Your breath catches the moment you see what’s inside.

Your own face, captured in a moment frozen in time.

The sight of it steals the air from your lungs, a sharp ache blooming in your chest. You knew this locket, knew what it contained, but seeing it here, now, in his possession—it doesn’t make sense. If he believed what they told him, if the Capitol had truly twisted his mind against you, why would he still have this? Why would he keep something that tethered him to you?

Your fingers tighten around the locket, the edges pressing into your palm as if grounding you in reality. For the first time in weeks, doubt begins to take root, curling into something almost dangerous.

A voice breaks through the silence, low and familiar, stopping your thoughts in their tracks.

"Did anyone tell you that touching someone else’s stuff is rude?"

The words send a shock through you, and your breath stutters in your throat. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Finnick.

His tone isn’t harsh, isn’t cold or cutting like you feared it might be. It simply exists, filling the space between you in a way that makes your pulse hammer against your ribs. After everything—after weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending you don’t exist—he’s speaking to you. Acknowledging you.

Slowly, you force yourself to turn, meeting his gaze for the first time since the medical bay. The sight of him knocks the air from your lungs. He looks like himself, and yet not at all. The sharpness of his features remains, the familiar curve of his mouth, the green of his eyes—but there’s something different. The exhaustion clings to him like a second skin, his expression guarded in a way that sends a painful twist through your chest.

For a moment, neither of you move. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant noise of the bunker around you. Then, hesitantly, you lift the locket, the gold catching in the dim light as you hold it between you. His gaze flickers to it, something unreadable passing across his face.

He doesn’t snatch it away, doesn’t shove it into his pocket as if ashamed to have been caught with it. Instead, his fingers brush against the metal, slow and deliberate, before he takes it from your grasp. His thumb traces over the worn surface, lingering over the picture inside, his jaw tightening slightly as he studies it.

You watch him, heart lodged in your throat, afraid to speak and shatter whatever fragile moment has formed between you. For the first time in weeks, something shifts in the space between you—not enough to undo the damage, not enough to bring back what was lost, but enough to spark the faintest flicker of something you thought had been extinguished forever.

"Why do you have it?"

Your voice is quieter than you intended, barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t matter. The question lingers between you, pressing against the silence, desperate for an answer. You need him to say something—anything—that tells you he’s still in there, that beneath all the hatred, all the distance, there’s still a part of him that hasn’t let you go.

Finnick’s brows knit together, his gaze still locked on the locket in his palm as if the answer might be hidden in its worn edges. His fingers tighten around it, thumb tracing the familiar grooves, but he doesn’t speak.

The silence stretches, wrapping around you like a slow-moving tide. The world around you dulls, fading into nothing but the space between you and him. It’s been so long since you’ve had this—just him, just you. Even now, when everything feels different, wrong, broken, you can’t help but reach for what you lost.

Seconds drag into eternity, but you won’t back down. You’ve spent too many weeks pretending you could survive this distance when all you really wanted was to collapse into his arms, to hear him say something that could put you back together again.

Finally, he exhales, the sound barely audible, as if he’s been holding it in for too long. "I don’t know."

His voice is rough, strained, like the words cost him something. For the briefest moment, his eyes soften, something vulnerable flashing through them before it’s gone. He closes them, his lashes brushing against his cheek, his throat moving as he swallows hard.

You watch him carefully, memorizing him all over again. As if you haven’t traced every inch of his face before. As if you don’t already know every scar, every freckle, every shift of emotion that he tries to hide.

He looks exposed beneath your gaze, like the weight of your stare is too much, like he wants to run from it.

“I’ll tell you what,” you say, voice softer than you meant it to be. His eyes open at that, locking onto yours, and for a second, your breath falters. You could drown in that gaze. You always could.

Swallowing, you force yourself to keep steady, to say what you need to say. "Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

"Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

Finnick doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just holds your gaze like he’s caught between disbelief and something else, something heavier. His fingers curl around the locket, his grip tightening for a second before loosening again.

"What truth?" His voice is quiet, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like he’s daring you to say something he won’t be able to ignore.

You take a breath, steadying yourself even as your chest tightens. "That the Capitol didn’t take everything from you."

His jaw clenches, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. "You think you know what they did to me?" His laugh is humorless, bitter, the kind that scrapes against old wounds. "You think you understand what’s in my head?"

"I don’t have to understand it to know that this—" you gesture to the locket in his hand, "—means something. That you kept it for a reason."

Finnick exhales sharply, his fingers flexing, his shoulders rising with tension. "Or maybe I just forgot to throw it away."

The words sting, sharp and cruel, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you step closer, closing the space between you. His breath hitches for just a moment, and you see it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his body tenses, like he’s fighting something within himself.

"Then do it." Your voice is steady, a challenge. "If it doesn’t mean anything, if I don’t mean anything, then throw it away."

Finnick says nothing. His grip tightens around the locket again, but his hand doesn’t move.

Your throat feels tight, but you press on. "I know you, Finnick. I spent nights tracing your scars on your skin, and so did you. And I know that no matter what they did to you, no matter what they forced into your head, some part of you still remembers."

His breath is uneven now, his gaze flickering away, like he can’t bear to look at you.

"Tell me I don’t matter," you say, voice softer now, almost pleading. "Tell me that locket doesn’t mean anything. And I’ll leave you alone."

Finnick stares at the locket in his palm, shoulders drawn tight like he’s caught in a battle you can’t see. His fingers hover over the clasp, as if debating whether to close it, tuck it away, or crush it in his grip. But he does none of those things. Instead, he just stands there, the weight of your words pressing down on him like an anchor.

You wait, heart hammering against your ribs, but he doesn’t speak.

"Finnick." You take another step, your voice softer now, hesitant. "Please."

His jaw clenches. "You think this changes anything?"

"It changes everything," you counter. "You’ve been pretending I don’t exist, but you kept this. Why?"

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes, something that makes your stomach twist painfully. "I don’t know," he admits, and for the first time since he came back, he sounds… lost.

It guts you more than the indifference ever did.

You don’t realize you’ve reached for his hand until your fingers brush against his. His skin is warm, familiar, but he flinches like you’ve burned him. He doesn’t pull away, though. Doesn’t shove you aside like you half expect him to.

"You do know," you whisper.

His breath shudders as he finally lifts his gaze to yours. The exhaustion clings to his face, but beneath it, there’s something else—a flicker of recognition, of a battle waging inside him.

"You said if I told you that locket doesn’t mean anything, you’d leave me alone." His voice is quieter now, almost hesitant.

You nod, forcing yourself to hold steady, even as your chest tightens. "I meant it."

Finnick swallows, gaze dropping to the locket again. His thumb brushes over the worn gold, over the tiny latch that guards your picture inside. Another long silence stretches between you, the tension pulling tight, suffocating.

Then, finally—so quiet you almost miss it—he exhales, "I can’t."

Your breath catches. "Can’t what?"

His fingers tighten around the locket, his shoulders rising with a shuddering breath. "I can’t say it doesn’t mean anything."

The air between you shifts, something fragile and dangerous crackling in the space. Hope stirs in your chest, tentative and unsteady, but real.

"Then stop pretending like I don’t exist," you whisper.

Finnick’s throat bobs as he swallows. He looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something, teetering between fear and familiarity. His lips part, but before he can say anything, a voice calls from across the bunker.

"Odair, let’s go!"

Finnick tenses, something closing off in his expression again. His fingers curl around the locket, hiding it from view, and just like that, the moment shatters.

You watch as he steps back, his face unreadable again. But before he turns away completely, you see it—the way his hand lingers near his pocket, the locket still clutched tight in his palm.

He doesn’t throw it away.

And this time, you let yourself believe that means something.

[lowkeyerror]

Our Soul

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Notes: Requested, soulmate au, mostly fluff, like the smallest dash angst maybe

Summary: When searching for coven members, Agatha finds her soulmate. Her nerves about the woman being involved only grow when The Witches' Road turns out to be legit.

An: Sorry the request took so long, I did simplify it a bit I hope that it's still enjoyable.

Masterlist

Agatha made a mistake. The moment she had looked into Y/n’s eyes, she was sure of it. She’d always thought finding her soulmate would be this horrific thing. That the description of having your soul intertwined with someone else's sounded painfully, boring, and wasteful. Yet she had it all wrong.

It was the soft pull of a flower to a summer breeze. It was as if something warm finally reached her freezing soul. The souls were translucent with glowing specs shinning inside. Agatha’s, dark purple like her magic; Y/n's, golden like the tint of her irises sparkling in the sun. They twirled up together, two halves becoming one whole. Then they lay flat, into a singular form.

She visualized it, beautiful, all encompassing, and complete. However she was still horrified in some ways. She glanced at the paper with Y/n’s name scrawled across it and then back at her. It was too late to take back the offer. The way that Y/n's eyes lit up at the mention of the road was impossible to miss.

She’d have to do something about it. There was no way she was going to let her end up like the rest of the people on the list. Y/n dying was nowhere in Agatha’s plans.

Y/n made a mistake. She was sure of it when Agatha’s hand pulled her down on to the road. The way her mind had called Agatha’s hand a perfect fit for her’s. The entire reason she had agreed to come in the first place was now jeopardized. All because of Agatha’s illustrious blue eyes, her cunning smile, and the warm softness of her hand in yours.

She was here to find her soulmate. That’s all she wanted from the road. Yet here she is swooning over Agatha Harkness, known most for her treachery. It felt like she was failing her one true love.

When Agatha stops abruptly at the last step, Y/n crashes into her. Agatha is quick to tug at her wrist, pulling the gorl back into her, rather than tumbling backwards.

“Are you alright sweetheart?”

Y/n watches Agatha’s eyes scan over her, worry easily perceived. The younger woman respond with a loose nod. She was being pulled in by the current of Agatha’s crystal-esque eyes.

“Yeah,” is all she can manage to say.

She smiles slyly knowing she had Y/n flustered. Agatha doesn’t let go of her, the older witch’s pull persisting. The older woman doesn’t trust this road. She knows it isn’t real, that this shouldn’t be happening. Whatever this is, she wouldn’t let it claim you.

While she takes charge of the others, Agatha never strays far from her soulmate. She felt like she had to protect Y/n. After the road’s first test Agatha knew she was right. Mrs. Hart was dead, and everyone was shaken up about it. Especially Y/n.

As everyone walks away from her body, Agatha falls in step with Y/n.

“How are you holding up?”

Y/n’s gaze stays on the ground she shake her head slightly, as if she expects a thought to fall out, “I don’t know.”

“Is this your first time dealing with that kind of thing?”

Y/n tilts her head, “Agatha we’re hundreds of years old. I’m no stranger to death or dead bodies. It’s just… been a long time.”

“Right.”

“Why’d you bring her?” Y/n couldn’t help but ask.

Agatha fumbles for an answer. The truth being that she didn't think things would go this far. This was supposed to end in the basement. She would’ve stolen everyone’s powers then manipulated Mrs. Hart’s memories and she would be none the wiser. She was intended to be a placeholder not a carcass.

Y/n watches Agatha carefully wondering what kind of lie she would tell, how the woman would spin the story. Instead she sees a small dip in the character Agatha was always playing.

“I didn't think she'd get hurt,” it’s a small, but honest truth.

Agatha was scared of the woman’s response. Perhaps Y/n would call bullshit and turn on her. Everyone was always so quick to point a finger at her. She had been taking the blame since she was a child all that time ago. So it would be nothing new to her.

“I believe you.”

Y/n doesn't know why she said it. She didn't plan on responding, but something inside of her was begging her to speak. It was another flaw in her eyes, wanting to bring comfort to Agatha. The woman that was distracting her from her soulmate.

Agatha is fighting the urge to question why Y/n believes her. She didn't deserve the girl's trust. She’s starting to believe she didn't deserve Y/n. Yet that didn't necessarily matter anymore, their souls were already intertwined.

“We should try summoning another green witch,” Y/n suggests.

It causes a bit of commotion in the group, but with no choice left, they try it.

“M’lady.”

When Rio Vidal comes crawling out of the ground Agatha lunges at her. The rest of the group is stunned by their clearly complex past. Agatha’s not the only one who reacts to The Green Witch.

Y/n’s eyes widen, “Oh no.”

When Rio sees Y/n she turns away from Agatha. She stalks towards the woman, cautiously taking Y/n’s hand in her. With a charming smile she presses her lips to the backside of the younger witch’s hand.

“Mi vida.”

Agatha watches with her jaw nearly on the floor. The blush on Y/n’s face told her everything she needed to know.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Rio drops Y/n’s hand, “What? I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd come by, help out.”

“So are you a green witch?”

Before Rio responds Y/n cuts her off, “As green as it gets, let’s keep moving.”

“I like that idea,” Agatha seconds that and begins to walk off, Y/n trails behind her.

The rest of the coven eventually joins.

“So... you know Rio too?”

Agatha keeps her gaze straight ahead, “Yup.”

Y/n let’s out an amused huff of air, “Seems like we know her in the same way too.”

“It does look that way. I gotta say, I would've never guessed she was your type.”

“At one point in time I thought she was my soulmate. You have to admit under all that cunning is someone so tragically lonely, but eternally beautiful. I always doubted that love would exist without fear of her."

Agatha knew what the girl really meant when she said ‘her'. Death had an air of beauty about her not only in appearance.

“Rio is everything you said, but you forgot to add irritating,” Agatha adds.

Y/n laughs at her, “Always showing up at the most convenient times for herself. Which just so happens to be inconvenient to everyone else.”

“I can't believe you thought she was your soulmate.”

Y/n looks away bashfully, “Well you must’ve too all things considered.”

Agatha disputes the statement instantly, “I never really bought into the whole soulmate thing.” She takes a moment to look into Y/n’s eyes, “At least not until recently.”

“Why not?”

“Agatha didn't believe in any of those kind of happy ending fairytale like romances sweetheart, just not in her character,” Rio steps in between the pair to get in on their conversation.

“Something to do with you maybe?” Y/n shots at Rio.

Rio gasps in faux-shock, “No, I’m the perfect wife. Right, my love?”

Agatha rolls her eyes, “Ex-wife, current thorn in my side.”

“Aww she’s so grumpy without her magic, Y/n. She’s usually a much more cheerful spirit.”

“Fuck off,” Agatha starts walking faster.

She reaches over Rio, to grab Y/n’s wrist pulling her along in a similar way she did down the road in the first place.

Whatever conversation that was going to play out died upon seeing another trial. By the look on the witch‘s face it was obviously Alice’s. The outfits, the rock band, the grunge of it all was a bit fun at first. Yet the fun never lasts in these things, especially when threatened by a generational curse.

The ballad was once again the key to the trial. Almost reminiscent of your way onto the road, singing the ballad helped Alice defeat her curse. However it was not without a cost, as Teen had some how gotten injured.

The responsibility fell on a group. A second trial and second death was looming over the group. The care and distress in Agatha’s movement was stark contrast to what had happened when Mrs. Hart died.

Y/n couldn’t help it as she silently asked Rio if it was the boy’s time. Lady Death stood silent, pensive, as if she herself was gauging the situation. Then she shook her head.

It was during this time that his wound was healed. Though he lay unconscious, it was general consensus that he'd be alright. While this placated the others, Agatha was not leaving his side.

The rest of the coven went to set up camp for the night. Y/n knew she wasn’t obligated to stay with Agatha and Teen, but she wanted to.

Whatever Agatha was feeling, for once it was plain on her face. The moment was fragile, something Y/n was mindful of as she sat quietly next to Agatha.

“Have you ever lost something so pivotal to your existence that without it, you no longer feel whole?”

“My brother,” Y/n’s gaze lingers on Billy.

“Do you… have you seen him in other people?”

Y/n nods, “Sometimes I can’t help it. I see someone that looks like him or likes the things he likes or acts like him, but they’re not him.”

Agatha turns her attention to Y/n. The far away look in her eye makes the older witch move close to her.

“What happened to him?”

Y/n’s bottom lips curls up into her mouth, “I happened.”

Agatha’s hand finds it’s way on top of Y/n’s. The younger witch intertwines their fingers. Y/n lets out a large breath, trying to center herself.

“My son,” Agatha whispers. “I see Teen and I see the kind of boy that mine could’ve grown to be .”

“Agatha,” Y/n says her voice softly.

Agatha clears her throat, “Let’s go see what kind of camp they’ve set up.”

She stands abruptly, but makes sure to extend her hand to the other woman. Y/n takes the help to stand. Agatha is reluctant to drop the girl’s hand, but she does. That doesn’t keep the woman away from her. Y/n walks close enough that their arms brush as they walk to camp.

When both sit, the other’s are full of laughter, reminiscing about their battle scars. Agatha shows off her's and the rest give her a roar of laughter that she didn’t expect.

The laughter dies down as Rio talks about having a scar. Something that both Agatha and Y/n know to be false. The younger of the pair can’t help, but glare as Rio spins a tale of a woman. Someone that Y/n knows to be Agatha.

A trick to rile the woman up. It works as Agatha storms off. Rio tries to go after her.

“I think you’ve done enough,” Y/n stands to stop her.

Rio raises her hands in defensive before gesturing them in the direction Agatha ran off in, “By all means then, you go after her. Just remember at the end of the road, your soulmate will be waiting for you.”

“Fuck you Rio,” Y/n goes after Agatha.

She finds Agatha just standing in a field. Y/n approaches her, moving to stand in front of Agatha. The powerless witch doesn’t look at her.

Y/n takes Agatha’s face in both of her hands. Agatha’s expression has a million facets to it. Sorrow, regret, anger, but most prevalently Y/n sees a plea.

“Death has a nasty way of lingering doesn't she?”

A single tears slides down Agatha’s cheek. Y/n wipes it away with her thumb.

Her laughter is shaky, “You didn't have to come after me.”

“Agatha, I wanted to be here,” Y/n reassure her.

“I don’t deserve you,” she leans into Y/n’s touch.

It’s like Y/n’s says it to herself when she speaks, “ I decide what I deserve.”

Agatha’s crystal blue eyes meet Y/n’s, “And what about your soulmate?”

“This isn’t about that.”

Agatha’s holds Y/n’s in place against her face, “What if it is?”

Y/n’s eyebrows furrow, “What are you saying?”

Agatha steps out of the woman’s hold. Her hands move wildly as she talks, “Don’t you feel it? When we locked eyes, I saw our souls mixing. I know that you're too good for me. I’m this no good evil hag, with a reputation that makes dictators seem like saints. I don’t deserve to have a soulmate, especially one as good as you.”

When Y/n looks into Agatha’s eyes she feels it. She sees what Agatha saw when they first met. Their souls coming together, in what is certainly the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

Tears form in Y/n’s eyes. She strides over to Agatha, again cupping the woman’s face in her hands. Y/n smiles through her tears.

“I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

A smile fights it's way onto Agatha face, “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Agatha I’ve dated the physical embodiment of death. I don't care,” Y/n tucks a piece of Agatha’s hair behind her ear.

“I’m no good-”

Whatever Agatha had planned on saying didn’t matter to Y/n. The younger girl plants her lips on Agatha’s firmly. The older woman melts into the kiss the words dying on her lips.

“You’re good to me,” Y/n breathes out as the kiss ends.

Agatha hugs Y/n’s waist, keeping her close. Their foreheads rests against each other. The brunette’s eyes slowly open. There’s fire behind the blue orbs

“I will be, I promise.”

The road wasn’t finished and Agatha had yet to regain her power. However, she already felt more complete with Y/n in her arms. A part of her restored upon connecting with her soulmate.

[songbirdseung]

walk home / nishimura riki

did you think you'd get a potential boyfriend on your way to the convenience store during one of your many midnight walks?

you had walked these streets every day for the past four years, each step blending into the next, creating a rhythm of routine. the same worn pavements, familiar storefronts, and repetitive decorations lined your path. nothing out of the ordinary ever caught your attention—just the usual, mundane occurrences that seemed to blur together. each day felt like a carbon copy of the last, a predictable cycle you had grown accustomed to.

but today, something unexpected happened.

as you made your way down the street, lost in your thoughts, a sudden burst of energy interrupted your mental drift. out of nowhere, a small, fluffy dog came dashing toward you, its tail wagging furiously, eyes alight with excitement. the little pup stopped at your feet, looking up at you with an expression of pure joy, as if you were its long-lost best friend. taken aback, you crouched down to greet the enthusiastic furball, your heart instantly warming at the sight.

"well, aren’t you a friendly one," you murmured, scratching behind the dog’s ears. the pup leaned into your touch, clearly enjoying the attention.

before you could wonder where its owner was, a voice called out from behind, slightly breathless. "bisco! there you are!" the voice exclaimed. you looked up to see a young man jogging toward you, his face flushed from exertion, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes.

"i’m so sorry about him," he said, stopping a few steps away. "bisco usually doesn’t just run up to strangers like this."

that’s how you met riki—and his dog, bisco.

you remembered the rush of emotions you felt when you first saw him. he was gorgeous, with a striking yet approachable face, his tall frame accentuated by his confident stride. despite his edgy clothing style, there was a softness to his demeanor that made him seem approachable and, frankly, adorable.

"hi," he said, still catching his breath. "i really apologize. bisco can be a little... unpredictable sometimes."

"it’s okay," you replied with a smile, still petting the dog. "bisco, huh? that’s a cute name."

riki chuckled, a sound that made your heart flutter. "thanks. he’s named after my favorite snack."

you laughed softly. "well, bisco seems to like me. he ran straight over."

"i don’t blame him," riki said, his lips quirking into a shy smile. "he has good taste."

there was a beat of comfortable silence, bisco happily wagging his tail between you. you felt a warmth spreading through your chest, a strange but pleasant sensation, as if something meaningful had just begun.

"so... do you walk bisco around here often?" you asked, hoping to keep the conversation going.

"yeah, we live just a few blocks away. this is his favorite route," riki replied, his hands casually slipping into his pockets. "what about you?"

"same. i walk this way almost every day. funny we haven’t crossed paths until now."

"guess bisco was determined to change that today," riki said, glancing down at his dog with affection.

"looks like it," you agreed, laughing softly. "maybe he’s trying to set us up."

riki’s eyes twinkled with amusement. "if he is, he’s doing a great job."

you continued chatting, the conversation flowing easily despite having just met. bisco occasionally tugged at his leash, sniffing around and wagging his tail, oblivious to the new connection forming above him. with each passing minute, the once-familiar street seemed to transform. what had always been a mundane path now felt filled with possibility and excitement, all because of this chance encounter.

"maybe we should let bisco choose our routes more often," riki said, his tone light but his eyes holding a deeper interest.

"maybe we should," you replied, feeling a smile stretch across your face.

as the two of you stood there, the world around you seemed to fade into the background. the once-ordinary day had turned into something extraordinary, thanks to a playful pup.

"hey," riki’s voice gently pulled you back to reality. you blinked a few times, refocusing on the present. he was standing in front of you, his head tilted slightly, an amused grin tugging at his lips. "you okay there? you zoned out for a second."

"oh, sorry," you said, feeling a bit flustered. "i was just... thinking."

"about the first time we met?" he asked, a knowing glint in his eyes. "you had that same dreamy look on your face."

you laughed, trying to hide your embarrassment. "yeah, you caught me. i was thinking about bisco running up to me and how awkward you were."

"hey!" riki protested with a mock pout, crossing his arms. "i wasn’t that awkward."

"you totally were," you teased, nudging his arm. "but it was cute."

riki shook his head, chuckling softly. "well, if it got us here, i guess a little awkwardness was worth it." he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle and familiar.

[muzansfangs]

How would Gin, Shinji and Jugram react when they get it in the the wrong hole while have sex and their s/o start crying in pain

They get in the wrong hole during sex.

Starring: Shinji Hirako x f!reader; Gin Ichimaru x f!reader; Haschwalth Jugram x f!reader; mention to Rangiku Matsumoto, Hinamori Momo, Kira Izuru, Bambietta Basterbine, Candace Catnipp, Bazz-B, Robert Accutrone, Yhawach;

Format: short-imagines;

Warnings: nsfw, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, accidental anal sex, remorse, aftercare, slight hints to degradation kink, dirty talk, spanking, mirror sex, hair pulling, crying during sex, dacryphilia;

Plot: In the heat of the moment, amidst goofy and tragicomic accidents that could occur during passionate sex, you end up experiencing one of the worst. How will your boyfriend deal with the situation? Is it going to kill the mood?

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Shinji Hirako.

When your boyfriend swung the front door of your flat open, barging into your apartment with a large luggage and shit-eating grin, you knew exactly what was going to happen. An eventful night, without the shadow of a doubt. At first, you just stared at him doumbfounded, eyes travelling up and down his frame, surprised to see he was not wearing his Captain’s haori and the shihakusho you loved oh so much. You had not been able to see him in a month, since he had taken back his former position as the Captain of the Fifth Division.

You knew it was going to be hard, but there was no difficulty you could not deal with, as long as you were together. And your relationship persisted.

“Well? Are ya just gonna sit there and ogle me? Doll, that’s not the way I expected ya to welcome me back! C’mon, bring that ass over here” Shinji sassily commenced, kicking the door closed with a foot and opening his arms to invite you to jump on him.

You dashed towards him instantly, glorious smile of victory over your face as you buried your face into his chest “You stupid jackass, I missed you like crazy!” you exclaimed, as he wrapped his arms around you and swept you off of your feet. You giggled, kicking your feet in the air, as he marched towards your bedroom without further ado. After all, he was still a man drunk on your love. Even if disrobing you right away might have resulted overly materialistic and egoistical, you had been dying to be touched too.

It was a romantic reunion, no matter what any bigoted stranger could think of it.

You were turned on, when he began to undress you, mouth devouring yours passionately, devotly, as you reached your hand out to switch the lights on. Shinji thought the darkness spiced things up even more, though, and he swatted your hand away.

“Roll over” he eventually chimed, quick to unbuckle his belt, or this is what you assumed he was doing for the metallic sound of his belt clinking.

Maybe, choosing such a position in a room scarcely illuminated by the streetlamps and neon lights of the shops outside was not exactly a brilliant idea. Centuries of fornicating around, however, had apparently helped your boyfriend to find the right hole even without the help of his sight. Or, at first, that was what you thought. Sheathed deep into you, Shinji held you down by gripping the back of your neck. The feeling of him filling you up repeatedly was ever so satisfying.

“Dear Gosh, don’t stop! Not even if I pass out!” you dramatically said, back arching up as his pelvis smacked against the back of your thighs roughly.

“My nymphomaniac vixen! You missed that cock, didn’t ya? I’m no where near to be done with ya” your menace of a boyfriend drawled out, wanton in his voice, cock twitching into you as he pulled out to readjust his position behind you. Those were moments before the disaster.

You whined for the lack of contact, shifting on your knees subconsciously to search again for the warmth of his body “Hurry up, Shinji! I need you back”.

“Have some patience, babe, I’m right here! You’re horny as fuck tonight” he replied, going straight for the kill and pushing the head of his cock back into your entrance. But the wrong entrance.

Dread washing over you, the stinging sensation in the most private part of your body, sensitive, now bruised, caused tears to overflow from your eyes. A small screech left your lips, throat burning as Shinji panicked and immediately pulled back.

“Holy cow, forgive me! Babe, are ya okay? Does it hurt? I’m so, so sorry, it’s my fault! The damn lights, I should have switched them up!” he profusely apologized, jumping back on his feet and finally allowing the lights to illuminate the bedroom. You collapsed on your side, curled up in a ball and taking sharp intakes of breaths.

Shinji rushed back to you, peppering your cheeks with kisses, hoping to calm you down “It’s okay… It happens, don’t worry”.

Your boyfriend was glad you had forgiven him, but the resoult was an immediate cockblock effect on him. He grew soft, as he slumped down next to you “I think we better rest tonight, love. I’ve taken two weeks off to stay with ya” he stated, defeated, still shocked by the accident.

You scooted closer to him, nose brushing against his one “Promise?”.

“Promise”.

Gin Ichimaru.

The barracks of the Third Division were terrifyingly empty, ghostly. When the Captain of the Eight Division threw a party, everyone attended it. No one turned down the opportunity to chug some high quality saké for free. No one besides you and your shrewd boyfriend, as well as the Captain of the Third Division. Working hours did not leave you the chance to spend some quality time together. The absence of new recruits and officers continously requiring either his, or your assistance was a manna from Heaven.

Now, in the privacy of his office, you were showing off your new uniform to a randy Gin. After years of him pleading you to purchase a skirt, you had given up and there you were, proudly twirling around to whet his appetite for your flesh. It did not take a lot for him to nimbly haul you over his shoulder and head straight to his desk. His bony hands shamelessly groped your ass through the thin fabric, visualizing your globes and the way he was going to smack them, while nestled deep into you.

“Damn, I really did not need another distraction at work… — Gin chimed, carefully letting your feet touch the floor, your face’s destination the smooth mahogany surface at your back, as you diligently turned around to slump over it with your torso — But don’t you dare wear those shitty pants again, sweetie” he warned you, provocative timbre sending frissons down your spine.

You clicked your tongue, propping yourself up on your elbows “And what about my panties? Should I wear them outside your office?” you instigated him to slide his slender digits past your folds in one smooth motion.

Gin hummed, pumping his fingers into you painfully slowly, savouring the lewd faces you were making through your reflection on the window. He was done playing nice. The prominent tent in his hakama indicated it was time to replace his fingers with his throbbing cock. It was only a matter of seconds, before you let out a strained whine and banged your fist over the desk, right beside your head, the stretch of his length penetrating you making it hard to breath.

“Shit! Gin— Oh!” you seethed, perching your ass up against his navel out of the reflex aroused from your boyfriend’s ministrations.

He leaned over you, his whole body draped over your back, mouth brushing agaisnt your earlobe “Only after I’ve shot my load up this irreverent pussy! I mean, they’re going to love seeing you all sticky, messy, cum running down the insides of your thighs… Fuck, would you like that? Do you want to waltz around the Soul Society leaking like a sieve?” he hissed, hot breath fanning your jawline as he thrusted into you with a hard and steady tempo making your velvety walls clamping around his cock.

You squealed out, overstimulated, his dirty talk reducing you to a flustered girl dealing with her first crush. Moans and guttural grunts echoed in the room, sweaty bodies and sinful remarks falling from both of your lips, until he grabbed a fist full of your hair and tugged you back towards him.

“Brace yourself, honey. I wanna see your face, when I shoot—” he rasped out, cock slipping out of your cunt accidentally.

He was about to slide in again, but a familiar voice coming from the outside of the door made him flinch and push you back down on the desk, hand over your mouth to muffle your frantic pants.

“Captain Ichimaru, I’m the Lieutenant of the Fifth Division! Are you awake?” Hinamori called out, not even daring to knock on the door.

The disgusting sound of someone puking shortly after followed her question and she gasped, clearly worried “Nevermind! I wanted to tell you Lieutenant Kira got drunk! Rangiku challenged him to a drinking game and I thought to accompany him back to his dorm! Goodnight!” she piped out, the sounds of footsteps fading away reassuring him enough to loll his head back and push himself back into you without double checking his actions.

The strangling constriction around his member was different. Weirdly so. Then, you screamed. A sob shook your form, body shaking uncontrollably, as Gin lowered his gaze and realized what had happened. You cried out in pain, mouth gaping in a struggle to endure the sudden intrusion and formulate coherent walls of protest. Gin’s eyes widened in shock, but the sight of some tears in your splendid eyes and the grip on his cock made him burst.

He groaned, the moment he spurted right into you. A white ring forming at the entrance of your puckered hole somehow electrifying him, but he was quick to pull out of you. Your body finally relaxed, breath labored as you glanced at him from above your shoulder in total bewilderment.

“Believe me, it was not intentional” Gin apologized hoarsely, hands slithering down the length of your back to provide you some comfort.

You hummed, eyes closing in exhaustion “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just… It’s no good crying over spilt milk”.

He kissed your cheek, nuzzling his face on the jucture of your neck “If I give you cookies and make you cum too, will you consider forgiving this poor man who was defeated by a sexy hole?”.

You could not help yourself but chuckle “Gin, please, stop!”.

“It was a matter of time anyway! You know, it always kept blinking up at me, while I fucked you like that!”.

“Stop!” you lamented, playfully slapping his forearm.

In the end, he kept his promise and granted you a mindblowing orgasm and some delicious cookies.

Haschwalth Jugram.

Abstinence and the unmanageable preparations for the incoming war had taken a toll on you. Your fiancé was beyond exhausted, yet he was exceptionally good at showcasing a completely different set of emotions than the ones he was dealing with in front of the others: professionalism, determination, authority and inflexibility left no room for tiredness and prostration. He barked orders around, keeping your comrades in line for the sake of your King. You knew him better than anyone else and you actually believed him when he said he was ready for this. However, it was exactly because you knew him that you sensed he was just as nervous and overwhelmed as you were. He was an atomic bomb about to explode.

Now, it had been another ordinary and chaotic day at the Palace. You were supposed to spend the night with Bambietta and Candace, when you heard a commotion resonating in the corridor. The source of the upheaval came directly from the training room. Curiosity killed the cat and you decided to sneak in and peek from behind the wall. Upon analyzing the situation, you realized a lot of people were gathering around two men. You were not surprised Bazz-B was picking up a fight, but you had to admit you had not expected his counterpart to be the ever so composed Robert Accutrone. It was hard figuring out what had caused the two Sternritters to throw hands, but you were displeased to assess no one was going to stop them.

No one besides your boyfriend.

The sound of his cape fluttering and the metallic sound of his sword being unsheathed from its scabbard made you flinch. Iciness in his eyes, he stepped between the two men and immediately pacified them without uttering a single word. He squarely gazed at Bazz-B, his jaw clenched, knuckles whitening around the hilt of his sword as the other scoffed and dashed out of the room, followed by some lower ranks supporting him. Robert merely bowed his head, eyes downcast, as he backed off.

“I am consternated” he curtly apologized, before leaving the room silently, index fixing his glasses over the bridge of his nose, probably out if habit rather than necessity.

The atmosphere in the training grounds was still thick, though. Some young recruits resumed their training sessions, while the rest of them began to gossip about what had just happened. When you saw Haschwalth sheathing back his sword, you decided to reveal yourself and hesitantly stepped into the room with a compassionate gleam in your eyes. Your boyfriend did not move an inch from where he was standing, always so descreet in the presence of your comrades, but you could tell he was beginning to feel tired of his role.

You approached him cautiously, hand reaching up to trace a path going from his forearm to his hand, still resting over the shiny hilt of his blade. The Sternitter Grandmaster inahled sharply, before suddenly enveloping your wrist in a bonebreaking grip stealing a low wince from your parted lips. This was new.

“Use it”.

A command. An order from the man you loved and your superior. You knew what it meant, though. Haschwalth was evidently fed up and in a desperate need to quell his wrath, to take his rage out somehow.

You gladly obliged his request, eyes closing as you snapped your fingers and a pool of pink light engulfed you two. You could have just walked straight out of that place to reach your destination. If Haschwalth Jugram had specifically asked you to resort to your power, he was decidedly about to make the entire Palace blow. What happened in your bedroom did not stupify you. The moment you reappeared in the privacy of your shared room, your boyfriend did not waste any precious time in superfluous compliments: he shoved you against the wall behind your back. The impact made you whimper out, but your huffs and puffs were swallowed by his mouth devouring yours to savor your taste.

You had missed the intimacy between you two. His hands popped the buttons of your uniform open, eager to finally claim your flesh after weeks of barely indulging into short make out sessions in the shadows. Opening his coat, he hastily unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers, leaving you with the task of disrobing yourself before his stunning blue eyes.

“Turn around” he breathed out, hand already wrapped around his hardening cock, pumping his shaft a few times to make sure he was straight as a ramrod.

Once all of you clothes were scattered on the floor, you twirled around and planted your hands over the wall in front of you. Haschwalth slapped your rear, quick to bend you over a little more for him to angle you in a better position. Your moan, strained, wantoned, echoed in the bedroom and the man standing behind you pressed his tip to your glistening entrance.

“I apologize for the lack of foreplay” he stated, cock slipping carefully into your warm channel, body going taut in the effort of controlling himself.

The burning sensation soon dissipated, your forehead pressed against the wall to help you concentrate and relax your muscles. The stretch was immensely satisfying, but this time you felt a tad more excited. There was raw desire behind his actions. His fingertips were pressing onto the plush of your hips enough to leave crescent marks over the skin, pressing down until he could feel the sharp hipbone beneath the pads of his digits.

“You should apologize for not having slammed me against the wall sooner” you heaved out, nails scraping the polished grey bricks underneath your palms, your boyfriend groaned out with the way you shifted around to squeeze him up better.

Your fiancé lolled his head back, golden eyelashes fluttering and casting curvaceous shadows over his cheekbones, as he pulled out slowly only to thrust back into you forcefully. Your whimpers and breathy moans filled the air, your minds freed from the sense of disquietude cascading on you two those past few weeks. He let it out on you, heedless of the slight pain you were enduring, his movements frantic and desperate, eyebrows knitted even if not in concentration to please you. He had chosen to be selfish this time. It was not like he had any other feasible option to consider. The choice was between massacring his underlings, or riling you to oblivion.

Naturally, he knew he could go a little too far with you in some peculiar occasions like the current one. His onslaught on your body was authentically brutal and your cries were starting to sound high-pitched, strained. Among the moans, the unmistakable sound of skin against skin and his lust for you, Haschwalth never really rested. Upon sensing your King was awakening, he tensed and remembered he should have been ready to receive his new orders. He decided to speed up the pace, cock accidentally slipping out of your dripping cunt, and painfully invading your puckered hole.

You choked out a wince, eyes rounded in shock as he groaned for the sudden tight grip of your muscles around his member. Yet, he was quick to pull out and let you go, somehow horrified by what had just happened. You were a panting, weeping mess, as you slumped down on a nearby leather pouf, hands shaking for the adrenaline and surprise.

“I hurt you, didn’t I? — Haschwalth was the first to talk, eyes scrutinizing your face to decipher your thoughts on the matter — I’m mortified. It wasn’t my intention” he explained, only for you to raise your hand and stop him from apologizing further.

“It was an accident. I just need a few minutes to recover” you sighed, eyes flicking up to meet his ones reassuringly.

Your fiancé pinched the bridge of his nose, luscious blond hair draped over his visage “I think Yhwach is looking for me. I lost control because I felt him calling for me”.

You nodded your head, knowing damn well he had to drop whatever he was doing to assist the King. You stood up and walked up to him, hands reaching down to buckle back up his belt “Hey, it’s fine. I promise we can continue later on. Now, don’t let him wait, or he’s going to let you know what a pain in the ass is” you jested, only for your ever so serious man to huff and bend down to plant a small kiss on your forehead.

“I don’t think I want to find out” he muttered lowly, fingers threading your hair as you smiled brightly up at him.

“Definitely”.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! The poeople have spoken and I am glad to serve! I missed writing this format and I stumbled across this request in my inbox. Christmas is going to be chaotic and my time to write is diminishing drastically. I will therefore have some posts scheduled to feed y’all. Likes, comments and re-posts are greatly appreciated!

Love,

– Luce

TAGS: tagging some of my lovely mutuals because I love to feed your fantasies @dehemetera @electronicwitchcollection @bankaizen @noirfan12 @suigetsusunny @my-my-my @velaenaa @villainsrtasty @brittscafe @akashis-waifu @sashi-ya @jesurum-says-hi @j-u-u-z-o @naru-mi-gen

[lil-quinnie]

Dark Paradise

Chapter three

Chapter One - Chapter Two

+18

This is my first time writing a vampire fic, so bear with the author and be nice.

Slow Burn, strangers to lovers, Eddie Munson is a vampire smut in this one.

Minors, I will hex you if you read my work.

The air cooled behind him, the room exhaled and you, half-asleep and aching, whispered his name into the sheets.

The cigarette trembled slightly between Eddie’s fingers as he stared through the fogged windshield, the tip burning too fast. Smoke curled like ghosts around his wrist. The windows were cracked just enough to let the cold seep in, the kind of cold that scraped bone or would’ve, if he still felt things like he used to.

His jaw was locked, his other hand shook as he gripped the wheel. He hadn’t touched you, not really, but fuck he’d wanted to, worse than ever. He’d wanted to bury himself in your skin, sink his teeth into the soft curve of your hip, hear you say his name while awake.

But he hadn’t, because if he did, he’d never stop.

His phone buzzed violently against the dash.

Fourth call in two minutes. “Jesus, Steve, what?” He crushed the cigarette in the asphalt through his window, exhaled a curse, and finally grabbed the phone.

Silence.

“You little shit. You ignore me all day and that’s how you answer?” Eddie closed his eyes, rested his head against the seat.

“I was busy.”

“Oh, were you?” Steve’s voice crackled, much older than Eddie, sharper. The way people sound when they’ve lived long enough to lose patience fast enough “Too busy sneaking into some poor girl’s house in the middle of the night?”

Eddie didn’t respond.

“Don’t play dumb,” Steve snapped. “You think I don’t know you? Know what this is? I’ve seen it before. Every few decades, different face the same storm in your goddamn chest.”

Eddie pressed his knuckles hard against the steering wheel. “She’s different.”

“Yeah. They always are.” Steve’s voice almost a whisper

“No. This one…” Eddie stopped, swallowed the ache. “She feels like a place I’ve already been. And now I can’t stop needing to remember where.” The older man could hear the smirk behind Eddie’s voice

Steve was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice had softened,only a little. “How bad is it?”

Eddie let out a shaky breath.

“She said my name in her sleep.”

Steve cursed under his breath. “Fuck, Ed. You shouldn’t even be in Hawkins.”

"I'll leave her alone."

"No. You won't."

Another long pause. Then Steve’s voice again, lower, more tired than before.

“You can’t do this. Not to her. Not to you. You know how this ends, Eds. every damn time.”

Eddie stared at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked like the same twentysomething, and he’ll look like it, forever.

But his eyes… They didn’t belong to someone young anymore.

“I don’t want to touch her,” he whispered.

“But you will,” Steve said. “You already did. Just not with your hands.”

The line went quiet again, except for the faint wheeze of Steve’s breath ,age catching up to lungs that once outran monsters.

“Are you still at the lake house?” Eddie asked, quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll swing by tomorrow. We can talk.”

“No, Ed. We will talk now. Because I know that tone. You’re already gone bud.”

Eddie’s fingers tightened around the phone.

“I dream about her,” he said. “Even when I’m awake.”

He heard Steve sigh, Eddie heard the sound of a drawer opening, maybe a bottle, maybe something stronger.

“You didn’t feed, did you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Eddie didn’t answer, the silence was thick.

“You’re not a monster,” Steve said, softer now. Eddie stared at the house in the distance, your bedroom window still faintly glowing from the candle you’d forgotten to blow out.

“I think I was always one,” he murmured. “You’re just the only one who kept pretending I wasn’t.” And then he hung up.

-

The road out of Hawkins was empty, nothing but fog and dirt and silence for miles. Eddie drove with the windows down, letting the cold bite his knuckles, letting your scent fade from his clothes, even if it clung to his skin.

He needed to breathe something else, anything else before he snapped. The hunger had been building for days, he could taste it now. Copper on his tongue, his body screaming at him, not just for blood, but for you. And that was the part that scared him most.

So he took the long road, past the state line. Past the little gas stations and truck stops, to a place where no one asked questions and no one would be missed.

It didn’t take long to find him. Some piece of shit outside a liquor store, pressing too close to a girl who couldn’t have been sixteen, breath reeking, words slurred and low.

Eddie saw red, and then the man saw Eddie, a little too late. He dragged him into the alley behind the dumpster before the drunk could scream.Eddie muttered, voice dark and low and cold, the man barely had time to beg, the feeding was fast, violent, silent. No theatrics nor mercy, just blood and heat and punishment.

Eddie didn’t look at his reflection when it was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand,blood dripping from his rings, spit onto the pavement and lit another cigarette with shaking fingers.

It didn’t taste right, none of them ever did, but the taste was always bitter when there was something evil running through the prey's veins. Eddie leaned back against the brick wall, head tilted toward the sky. Eyes closed, chest rising and falling too slowly for someone alive.

He took one more drag. “I’m trying,” he whispered, but clearly even he didn’t believe it.

~

The rain had finally stopped, but the house still felt soaked in it. 

Damp at the edges, quiet in a way that pressed on the ribs. 

You’d been trying to write for hours, but the words wouldn’t come. Your tea had gone cold twice, mug refilled with cheap wine more than three times and the window near your desk wouldn’t stop fogging up because the candles, now used only to perfume the small room, thanks to Eddie.

Eddie… The one who lived rent-free in your head, your every thought always interrupted by something about him: the husky, melodic voice that called you silly nicknames and made your heart skip a beat. The firm touch of his warm, calloused hands, or the piercing gaze that followed you whenever you were in the same room.

"fuck" you said, lowering the screen of your notebook "fuck Munson, get out of my head", in a single gulp you finished the warm remains of the wine in your mug and decided to explore the attic, maybe the boxes there held something more useful than your own brain.

Instead, an old yearbook and a cassette, the label was warped and nearly unreadable, scrawled across with what looked like a black Sharpie: Corroded Coffin - Demo 1987.

You laughed a little at the name. Popped it into the old tape deck you'd found earlier. At first, it was exactly what you expected, gritty, loud, aggressive, but then came a solo, nothing flashy, nothing cutting. 

You flipped through the yellowed pages of the yearbook, looking at the faces of teenagers from 30 years ago. The solo continued to play, now something slow, mournful. Like a scream that grew tired of asking for help and decided to sing for it. 

Your fingers brushed the dust from the photos until one in particular caught your eye. 

That smile, you knew that smile, you spent the week memorizing that same smile, that now seems like you imagined it, It's a shame the photo is almost completely erased by the time. 

You didn’t hear the attic stairs creak. You didn’t feel the shift in the air, not until his voice, low and quiet, behind you

"Where did you find that?"

You turned, startled, Eddie stood in the attic doorway, half in shadow. His eyes weren’t on you,they were fixed on the cassette deck.

"In that box," you said, pointing. "I didn’t know it was yours." He stepped inside slowly, the floorboards didn’t creak under him.

"It's not," he said, stopping the tape mid-solo and putting it back in the case. "It was from a band at my school, they were no good," Eddie said with a bittersweet smile on his lips.

That solo, the same one he wrote over 50 years ago, the same day his father got out of jail and went to the trailer park to finish the job he started the day Eddie's mother was murdered, to reunite mother and son.

You pulled Eddie out of his frenzy of thoughts. "It's beautiful."

"It wasn’t supposed to be."

You didn't know what to say, so you started moving to the beat of the new tape he had chosen. Not dancing, exactly, just letting the rhythm pull at your limbs. 

A slow roll of your hips, a shift of your shoulders. Wine still lingering on your lips from earlier. When you looked at him again, Eddie was staring, hard. Like you were a secret he hadn’t meant to find.

You smirked, breathless. "Dance with me, Munson."

He shook his head. "I don’t dance."

But he didn’t look away, not when you stepped closer. Not when your fingers ghosted his jacket or when your body brushed his like a question.

The man's body responded to yours like a ventriloquist dummy, as if you controlled him with just your gaze, and with your hands around his neck, Eddie would let you do whatever you wanted to him but he was the one who answered.

The kiss was hard at first, messy. More collision than coordination. You gasped against him, teeth catching lips, hands fisting into the back of his damp jacket. He groaned when you pulled him closer by the belt loops.

He grabbed your thighs and lifted you as if it were nothing. You laughed against his mouth, your fingers wrapped around his sharp jaw as he carried you down the stairs,you didn't get far though, the living room caught up with you.

He sat on the couch, draping you over his lap. His mouth moved to your neck, a low moan escaping your lips at the feel of Eddie's not-quite-hard bite.

His hands pressed against your hips, dictating the rhythm of your core rubbing against the bulge that became more apparent with each touch in his tight pants. His hips rolled slowly against yours, dragging a groan from both your mouths. 

The dry friction sent heat spiraling through your spine. You clutched at his back, letting your hips meet his, chasing more. He pulled back, eyes dark, voice barely steady. "You're soft everywhere. Everything about you is so fucking soft."

You cupped his jaw, touched the edge of his cheekbone. "Eddie" almost whispers above the noise outside.

"No. You don’t get it." His voice cracked, hands trembling at your waist. "You feel like something I shouldn’t touch. But I can’t help it, I'm already addicted to you."

It shattered something in you.

He dropped to his knees between your thighs, his eyes reverent. "Let me taste you. Please. Let me…" His hands trailed up your thigh, as if your skin were some precious treasure.

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat. His hands slid under your skirt, pulling your panties down with a care that felt like adoration. His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh, nibbling at the exposed patches of skin like a starving man, and then his tongue found your heat, slow and devastating. He groaned at the taste, one hand gripping your thigh, the other gently spreading you open.

You whispered his name over and over, your nails carving soft lines down his spine.

You screamed, your hips bucking, your hands scrambling for something to hold. He spread you open with his tongue and praised you, murmuring how sweet you were, how good you tasted, how perfect you felt in his mouth.

He held you by the hips, lifting you off the couch, eating your pussy like a meal. The noises that came from his mouth with each lick he gave you were demonic.

You felt two fingers massage the entrance of your pussy as Eddie spoke sweet nothings to you, his long fingers hitting just the right spot, making your body vibrate against his mouth. Your orgasm hit you hard, arching you inward, his name escaping your lips in a moan so deep it left you breathless.

He stood up then, his chest rising and falling with restraint. He picked you up again, his arms firm around you. In the bedroom, he laid you down as if you were going to break. He undressed you reverently, each piece of clothing kissed as if it mattered. He praised every inch of you. 

"Look at you... so fucking perfect." "I can't believe you're letting me touch you." "You're heaven, baby."

You helped him undress, your hands trembling on the defined lines of his hips, the soft trail of hair below his belly button. You were fishing Eddie out of his underwear; his cock was already glistening with excitement. When he sank into you, your breath caught as if it were the first time you'd ever breathed. 

Eddie tried with all his might not to go too hard, not yet. He held still for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours, trying to compose himself.

"You're so fucking good. Fuck. So good."

Your hands gripped his back, pulling him closer. He moved slowly and deeply, dragging out each thrust as if to memorize your shape. His mouth pressed against your jaw, your throat, your chest. His praises continued

"No one fucks you as well as I do. Let me make it good." "You take me so well. You were made for this." "So perfect. So sweet. All mine."

He murmured in your ear, slowing his pace when your body trembled too much, kissing the corner of your mouth when your breath caught in a sob. He cupped your face, caressing your cheek with his thumb.

"You're special, you know that."

When he came, it was with his face buried in your neck, a groan that sounded like a prayer. He stayed there, your bodies slick and intertwined, breathing you in as if you were the only thing keeping him alive. Afterward, he held you close, stroked your hair, and pressed kisses to your shoulder.

Your hand rested on your chest, feeling your heartbeat. Neither of you spoke for a long time. You fell asleep with his arms around you. And he…

He stayed until the candlelight went out, and even after you woke with a sharp inhale, the room was quiet. The candle beside your bed had barely melted. No sign of Eddie. Just warmth in the sheets and the ghost of his breath on your skin.

You sat up slowly. Your body still throbbed,tender, pulsing, wet between your thighs.

You ran your fingers along your lips, they felt kissed. Your heart wouldn’t slow down.

It was a dream, but it didn’t feel like one.

You stared at the door, dazed. Three soft knocks.

You froze. The air in the room shifted, like something waiting. You stood, bare feet against the cold floor, the knock came again, this time slower.

You opened the door, Eddie. Hair damp from rain, t-shirt clinging to his chest, eyes impossibly dark, he didn’t speak right away. 

Just stared at you, as if trying to decide whether to apologize or fall to his knees. His voice, when it came, was low. “I couldn’t sleep.” A pause. “You were in my dream.”

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You were in mine too.”

----------------------------------------------

Like I said, I'm not very good at slow burns…or am I? I'm obsessed with them and that's it, I hope you liked it, it's been my holiday hobby and I'm loving it, thank you <3

[allwaswell16]

A One Direction fic rec of fics with filthy smut as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other recs here. Happy reading!

- Louis / Harry -

😈 Pastel (series) by @fournipplesau

(E, 44k, daddy kink) the one where Harry distracts Louis while he works and gets the punishment he deserves, and so badly wants.

😈  Reduce Me To A Pleading Cry (Break The Skin and Tantalize) by @taggiecb

(E, 37k, bdsm) Harry is a broody submissive boss, Louis is a natural dom who works in the mail room at Styles & Styles, Niall is a matchmaking oracle, and a slender, dark haired man stands mute at the coffee stand encouraging others to spill their secrets.

😈 Santa Baby Honey by @sadaveniren

(E, 28k, boss/employee) Louis is the CEO of a toy company and Christmas is a stressful time of year so his assistant decides the best way to make him chill out is by getting him laid through a Secret Santa

😈 Stand on Holy Ground (series) by @wishingforloushair

(E, 17k, priest Harry) Louis comes back to confess again, and Harry has an idea of how Louis can show God his devotion. 

😈 Fuck U Betta (series) by jacaranda_bloom / @jacaranda-bloom

(E, 15k, jealousy) the one where Harry likes the thrill of the chase, Louis likes to be chased, and everyone gets what they need… in the end.

😈 Dom Louis (series) by dimpled_halo / @comebackassholes

(E, 15k, Marcel) Dear Mr. Louis, Hello. I’m Harry. I got your contact from a good friend of mine and was wondering if I can get your services. My 30th birthday is coming up and all I’ve ever wanted is to get spanked, maybe more? If you’re interested, please contact me. I’d love to hear from you. Sincerely, Harry

😈 you're stumbling like the nazarene by sarcasticfluentry

(E, 13k, religion kink) Harry hasn't had an orgasm in six weeks since he gave them up for Lent. On Easter Day, he has five.

😈 touch me baby, put your lips on mine by @insightfulinsomniac

(E, 12k, strangers to lovers) the soft and sweet sex party fic with a dash of dom/sub dynamics and a LOT of public sex.

😈  Watching You Watch Him (Friend to the Undertow) by myownspark / @myownsparknow

(E, 10k, voyeurism) While vacationing in Fiji, Louis and Harry accidentally stumble upon Liam getting edged by Sophia. Then Louis helps Harry find nirvana. There's voyeurism and porn but a character study and lots of fluff too.

😈 Devil in my brain, whispering my name by @lunarheslwt

(E, 9k, purity kink) Louis, a demon, shows Harry, an angel, just how good it can feel to give in to temptation and sin.

😈 lusting for more than just old dreams by mercutionotromeo

(E, 8k, kink discovery) A soft, pretty, delicate fic featuring camboy!Louis, Harry with a desperate crush, and - of course - Daddy taking care of his baby.

😈 like how your hands feel me up and down by ballsdeepinjesus

(E, 7k, uni) louis works in a halloween shop and harry needs a costume

😈 I Can Pull It Together by @louislittletomlintum

(E, 6k, armpit kink) the one where Harry accidentally discovers a new part of Louis he really, really loves.

😈 Body Stay Vicious by LetTheMusicMoveYou / @letthemusicmoveyou28

(E, 5k, exhibitionism) the one where Harry is feeling himself in the gym and gets a little carried away. Of course his gym crush just happens to walk in. They work it out

😈 sensitive to pressure by momentofclarity / @gaycousinlarry

(E, 4k, famous/famous au) Harry’s breath stutters on its way up his throat, his cheeks heating more with each step as Louis gets closer and Harry can’t move.

😈 jump in the deep end by istajmaal

(E, 4k, daddy kink) Louis's arse is a sensitive subject, so Harry approaches it gently. With his tongue.

😈 Leave Me Out by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird

(E, 3k, established relationship) Harry and Louis are spending a nice quiet evening at home when Louis tells Harry he's going to play FIFA with the lads. Harry decides he needs attention, and gets more than he bargained for.

😈 Feel my breath upon your thighs by CuckooTrooke / @larrydoinglaundry

(E, 3k, daddy kink) As Louis proceeds to talk on the phone, Harry gives in to the blinding temptation. He drops down on the floor and crawls between Louis' knees, craning them even further apart with ease.

😈 like animals by sky_reid / @captivekinqs

(E, 3k, canon) it's a good thing they don't do it like this often or louis would've been long dead by now.

😈 Pacify Her by yeah_alright / @uhoh-but-yeah-alright

(E, 2k, girl direction) Harry's anxiety is acting up. Louis has the only thing that will soothe her.

😈 Into the Woods by @kingsofeverything

(E, 2k, magical realism) Whenever he hikes, Harry keeps an eye out for trees with knots and scars that resemble buttholes. What started as fodder for his silly little Instagram account has become his favorite way to masturbate.

😈 For you i would lose my mind by @dreaminrainbows

(E, 1k, canon) Louis is a total menace on stage and Harry has had enough of it

- Rare Pairs -

😈 hand over by pinkgelpen

(E, 60k, ot5) ‘Twenty one things to try before 21,’ he reads aloud, voice lilting with amusement.

😈 Skin on My Skin by Layne Faire / @laynefaire

(E, 2k, Zayn/Liam) Let me touch you where you like it Let me do it for ya

[lostbookmark]

MDNI 🔞

Main Masterlist here

Game Masterlist here

Summary: After the death of your brother and his wife. You find yourself adjusting to a new role in your life. A single parent to your teenage nephew. How do you help him heal? How do you help yourself heal? You're not sure. You don't think you can, until an annoying basketball coach enters your life and turns everything around.

Pairing: Basketball Coach Yoongi x Single Aunt F. Reader

Genre: Romance, Angst, Smut, Strangers to Lovers,

Warnings: Death Of Parents / Brother/ Family, Car Accident (Cause), Swearing, Explicit Sex, Arguments, Physical Fighting, Past Abusive Relationship, Talks Of Domestic Violence,

A/N: So, it occured to me that I never named Yoongi's team. From here on out they will be the Bangtan Ravens. GO RAVENS!

SMUT!

“Have you asked Yoongi to be your plus one yet?" Elly asks, as she sits beside you on the bleachers at Nicky's game.

“Nope,” you answer, watching the boys run around the court.

“Chicken,” she laughs.

“What if he doesn't want to come?” You ask. “What if the dark lord throws a fit?”

Your mom, who was sitting in front of you, whirls around at your words. You guess she heard. Your dad wraps his arm around her shoulders, directing her focus back to the game. Elly rolls her lips between her teeth to stop herself from laughing.

“I think he's probably wrapped around your finger and wouldn't deny you anything,” she tells you. “Trust me. I saw how he looked at you when he found you in the stands. He won't say no.”

“I'll ask him tonight,” you promise.

“Good,” she replies. “I made sure to leave a seat next to you empty just in case at the reception.”

The crowd starts chanting.

Coach Jeon and Yoongi are both yelling, clapping their hands as they watch their players run across the court.

The clock counts down quickly.

5…4…3…2…1

The buzzer sounds loudly through the enclosed space.

Bangtan Ravens Win 31 - 19.

Your side of the gym goes wild as everyone jumps to their feet cheering. You stand slowly, clapping your hands watching as Nicky's team gathers, hugging each other before lining up on the court to high-five the other team. Nicky looked like he was glowing out there. It was in this moment that you knew putting up with everything was indeed worth it. You had made the right choice in letting him play.

He was born for this.

“You better be careful tonight,” your mom says, looking up at you.

“What?” You ask, not believing what you just heard.

“You heard me,” she said. “Don't get Nicky…. or yourself in a situation you can't get out of. You should be careful and call me if you need me.”

“I will,” you say.

“Have fun,” she says stiffly before walking down the bleachers and out the gym.

You and Elly exchange a look. This was odd. This clearly wasn't your mother. Obviously, this was some imposter, some pod person trying to impersonate her, a clone. However, it's your dads gentle hand on your shoulder and short nod that tells you that it was his doing. Once again, he stepped in and saved the day from her wrath. You need to step up your gift giving to him for all the shots he’s taking for you. Maybe you will get him a fishing pole or something. Unless your little fight with her actually got through to her.

“You better ask him tonight?” Elly says once more.

“I will,” you sigh.

Fuck, why were you so nervous all of a sudden.

Yoongi's car was illuminated by his dash as he drove the three of you back from your date. The only sound that filled the car was the quiet music that drifted from the speakers. Turning your head, you laugh silently as you watch Nicky sleep peacefully, curled up with a giant stuffed banana that he had traded all his tickets in for earlier in the evening.

Elly and your brother had tried to lay low while hanging around with you after the game, stalling, until almost everyone was gone. From there, you and Nicky took off with Yoongi as stealthily as you could to Arcadia Grill and Play to eat off an overpriced menu and play overpriced games. It was a pretty relaxed evening until they came to Hoops and you felt like someone should have cued some dramatic old time gun slinger western music for the faceoff that they were doing before they turned to their respective game. Both games start at the same time. Nicky and Yoongi grab the orange balls, throwing them with presion, sinking them in the net one after another as the timer counts down. Nicky's tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration as your eyes narrowed at Yoongi, who suddenly started to fumble with grabbing the balls as they came back to him, wasting time. While Nicky continues to make every shot, Yoongi seems to miss every third shot. You have a hunch he's missing on purpose.

Nicky relished in his victory with some innocent smack talking while his tickets dispersed from the machiche. Yoongi took it all in stride, waving off your attempt to keep your nephew quiet. Yoongi decides to play once more after Nicky's victory. As the teenager leaves to play some racing game, Yoongi presses start on the machine. Not only did he not miss one shot, but he beat the high score by a mile. You gave him a knowing look as the tickets spit out of the machine, causing him to just shrug at you. Nodding, the two of you went on your way enjoying the rest of the night with Nicky being none the wiser.

“He's knocked out back there,” you say, laughing lightly as you turn back facing forward.

“It's been a long day for him. He played hard,” Yoongi replied, as he focused on the darkened roaded lit by his headlights.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say. “We had fun.”

“You're welcome,” he said, grabbing your hand that rested in your lap.

“Aaand, thank you for letting him win,” you tell him.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” he denies your words as he brings your hand to his mouth to give it a quick kiss.

The two of you go silent, and your free hand nervously plays with the little black stuffed cat that he traded his tickets in for. You were going to make fun of him for getting a stuffed animal until he promptly handed it over to you. No one has ever won you anything before. That's not true. Your older brother won you a bear once out of a claw machine once at the skating rink at your tenth birthday party. You had slept with it for years. You still have it. Maybe you should find it.

“So, have you always played basketball? “ You ask.

“Pretty much,” he answers. “I loved it. The adrenalin. The crowd chanting your name. It was all such a rush.”

“You all sound the same,” you giggle. “What was your position?”

“I was a shooting guard all throughout school, but I know that doesn't mean anything to you,” he laughs.

“You would be correct,” you laugh with him. “Let me guess then. You were a popular jock who dated a cheerleader? Did she shake her pom poms for you?”

“Maybe,” he chuckles. “And based on everything that I have gathered….you were not a cheerleader.”

“Ew… absolutely not. Although, I did beat one up once. I got suspended for that one,” you tell him.

“I don't doubt that,” he replies. “I bet you were so cool. You wouldn't have even noticed me had we gone to school together.”

“I think you have that backwards,” you argue lightly.

“No,” he says, sticking to what he said. “I was popular, but I bet you were ….. cool, like you couldn't give fuck what people thought about you. I always wanted to be like that, but I was always afraid to stray too far from the rules and expectations,” he explains.

“Oh, you're still like that, Mr. Handbook,” you tease, making him laugh. “Did you stop playing on your own or…..”

“I got hurt in college,” he tells you. “Dislocated my shoulder. Team doctor pretty much told me that it was in my best interest to stop playing. So, I threw myself into my studies and…..”

“Started this program. You know you could have fessed up that you were the president that night we fu…you know, instead making me look like an idiot,” you tell him.

“I didn't hide it,” he defends himself. “If you actually took the time to read about the program you were putting Nicky in. You would have found it.”

“You knew damn well I didn't know,” you tell him.

“I know,” he agrees, finally pulling into your driveway. “I liked that you seemed to not know. I liked how you wanted me, how I wanted you. You didn't just want me to get your kid ahead.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt and lean over the middle console to brush the tip of your nose against his. Moving your head slightly, you see Nickly still dead asleep with his giant banana. It won't take much for him to go back to sleep once you are back inside.

“Stay,” you say, making him lick his lips nervously, and you don't want him to back out this time. “I think I owe you for two wins now. I think you should stay and collect.”

“I was just joking about that,” he says. “You don't OWE me anything.”

“Are you refusing?” You ask, confused.

Ouch.

“How about I stay and ….. we just sleep,” he suggests.

“Sleep?” You question, not believing him.

A beat of silence.

“....yees,” he answers slowly.

You smile.

He is such a liar.

“Sure, we can just sleep,” you can lie, too.

You shut Nicky's door softly as you tiptoe back to your room. He was sound asleep with both his tv, tablet going, and his body curled around that big banana. It's perfectly normal for him minus the new addition of the banana. Entering your room once again, you turn on that dime dresser light and slide carefully under the covers next to Yoongi, who was sleeping away peacefully. Smirking to yourself, you slowly crawl over his body, causing him to shift in his sleep, moving to lie on his back. Laughing lightly, you press your lips lightly to the column of his neck. You were done letting him think all you were going to do was sleep. Foolish man should have known better.

“Psss, wake up,” you whisper against his skin.

Yoongi goans as his eyes sleepily flutter open and adjust to the new lighting. Looking at you, he blinks a couple of times, and you smile a devious smile before making your way down his body and under the covers. Sliding his shirt up his torso, you drop kisses down his bare skin that was warm with sleep. Poking your tongue out, you drag your wet muscle down his now tightening stomach. Curling your fingertips into the waistband of his boxers, his hands suddenly cover your own.

“What are you doing?” He asks, whispering into the lowly lit room and uncovering your head. “Nicky…”

“Sleeps like a rock,” you answer, pulling his boxers midway down his thighs as he lifts his hips.

“The door,” he says, not stopping you.

“Is locked,” you inform, looking up at him from under the covers. “Now, I will stop if you want me to or shut up and let me suck your cock.”

Silence and a wide-eyed stare.

Was he in shock, or was it his answer?

You will take it as his answer.

If it wasn't his answer, his rapidly hardening erection sure was. Smirking, you take him into your mouth. Humming softly around him, you feel him relax back against your bed. Tossing your hair over your shoulder, you playfully tease with swirling your tongue around his mushroomed tip several times before pulling off and licking him from base to tip from underneath his shaft.

“Is this what you had in mind?” You ask, in a hushed tone. “Is this what you wanted after the first game? Did you want me on my knees for you?”

“Fuck, yeah,” he breaths out.

“Tell me what you like,” you whisper before sinking your mouth back onto him all the way down until your nose meets his pelvic bone, swallowing around the girth of him.

“THAT! HOLY SHIT THAT!” He whispers urgently. With a gasp, you pull off of him and wrap your hand securely around him, twisting and tugging so you can catch your breath. “Fuck, we don't have…”

“I want to,” you say, taking your hand off him and removing your shirt by pulling it over your head. “I'm not good at expressing my feelings with words, but I'm good at this. Please, just let me do this.”

Yoongi sits up, cupping your face and rubbing his thumbs along your smooth skin. You lean down to capture his lips with your own as your hand still works, twisting and tugging, but you were not done with your mouth yet. Pressing on his chest with your free hand, you push him back down and resume your position, kneeling over his lower body and taking him in your mouth without any hesitation.

Yoongi's hand flies into your hair, gathering your messy tresses into a loose pony to keep it out of your face. Looking up through your lashes at him, his eyes are half lidded as his tongue is poking into his cheek, staring at the way his cock is going in and out of your wet mouth. Raising an eyebrow, you take him down your throat, making his grip on your hair tighten and low strangled groan leave his throat . It felt like victory. Pulling off of him, you intentionally let saliva string from your tongue to his tip cause him to growl softly and pull you back into his lap.

“What's wrong?” You tease. “You can't take a little bj?”

“Do you know how often I think about stuffing that mouth of yours?” He teases back, slipping his finger just under the inner edge of your underwear, finding your obvious wetness. “Do you want to explain this?”

“Explain what,” you whisper, feining ignorance.

Yoongi slips his middle finger into your wetness, making you close your eyes in semi relief. You've been wanting his touch for weeks now, and now that you had him here… you needed him. Foreplay could wait until the next time….. damn, you were already planning for the next time.

Yes, it could wait for the next time.

Grabbing his wrist, you climb off his lap and crawl over to your nightstand for your familiar unassuming box hiding the condoms. Tossing one his way, you slide your underwear down your legs before kicking them off your leg carelessly. You notice that Yoongi hasn't even moved an inch, seemingly confused by your actions.

“Don't you want me to…” he starts, but you shake your head no.

“Not tonight,” you answer in a hushed voice, picking the condom up from where it landed on the bed and opening it.

“But…. but I like doing it,” he said.

“Next time,” you tell him.

“But you taste really good,” he tries again, and you laugh quietly.

“You can take as long as you want next time,” you promise, rolling the latex down his still hard erection as you move his shirt out of the way and climb back into his lap.

“But…” he tries.

“Shhh,” you hush him with your finger pressed against his lips as you sink down onto him. “Next time.”

Yoongi's eyes close, and his head tilts back, taking in the way your warmth surrounds him. You bite your bottom lip, trying to stay quiet as your hands grab his shoulders for leverage. Slowly, you pull yourself up before bringing yourself back down on him once more. You don't hurry. You don't rush. You didn't feel the need to. Not right now. You just wanted to feel him, just for a moment. Taking your time, you relax and bury your face into the side of his neck. Pressing your lips into the skin just below his ear.

“Fuck,” Yoongi whispers, bring his lips down to kiss your shoulder.

Pulling your face away from his neck, you rest your forehead against his own. Your hips still gently undulate on his still partially clothed lap. His hands slide up and down your back before tangling in your hair. Yoongi angles your head perfectly to slant his mouth up and across yours, slipping his tongue into your wet cavern. Your tongues roll perfectly with one another…..addicting. You had never had kisses like his before. Like you never wanted them to end. Like you could feel them for hours later as if they still tingled although he was nowhere to be found.

“I….I need you deeper,” you whisper against his lips.

“As you wish,” he whispers back.

Yoongi wraps your legs securely around his waist, and his arms wrap around your lower back before he flips the two of you over. Quickly, he undresses before covering your body with his own. Placing your ankles on his shoulders, he reaches down, placing his covered tip at your entrance. Smirking, his hips surge forward, causing the headboard to thump loudly against the wall.

You both freeze.

“Was that loud last time?” Yoongi whispers, looking frantically between you, the wall and the door. “I don't remember that being loud.”

“I don't know,” you answer, covering your mouth, trying to quiet the laughter bubbling out of your mouth. “We were a little busy last time to notice.”

“Shhh,” he shushes you. Pulling back, Yoongi, with much more careful intention, rolls his hips forward, filling you. Filling you just like you needed, but it still wasn't enough. Spreading your legs the best you could, Yoongi adjusts, attempting to pick up the pace, but unfortunately, your bed wasn't having it. “Shit, this isn't going to work.”

“Okay, okay,” you say and point to your oversized bean bag chair in the corner of your room.

“Are you serious,” he whispers and you nod.

Getting up, you grab his hand and pull him from your bed and lead to the chair before pushing him down onto it. You won't admit it, but the push was more of a test than anything. It didn't flip over, so you should be good to go, but you won't tell him that. Straddling his lap, your knees sink into the soft pink corduroy fabric. Reaching behind you, you take his thankfully still hard erection and place it back at your entrance and sit.

Biting your bottom lip, you brace yourself on his chest, you rock your hips along his, grinding your clit along his lower stomach.

“Is it deep enough?” His voice, rough, tense asks.

“Yeaah,” you answer rather breathlessly.

Yoongi hands grab your hips, gliding your body across his a little faster. You grab a hold of the pink fabric on either side of his head, gripping it in your fingers until your knuckles turn white, willing yourself to stay quiet.

“Fuck you feel just as good as I remember,” he groans in your ear.

“Shhh,” you hush, turning to brush your lips against his.

Bucking your hips faster, you stop short from hitting his thighs to prevent the inevitable slapping noise. However, right now, you couldn't care. While this slow shit felt nice, it wasn't what you wanted. Throwing yourself down onto his lap, you bounce and throw your head back.

“Too loud,” he whisper screams at you. “Shit, yeah, sooo fucking good….too loud!”

“Then….shut….up,” you pant.

Grabbing the back of his head, you smash his mouth to yours. He groans as you slip your tongue onto his. His hands grab the flesh of your bottom, pulling you back and forth, taking over your movements. Your whimper sets off a growl deep within his chest. A sudden movement has your back touching that thick pink corduroy fabric. On his knees, Yoongi was at the perfect height for him to thrust his hips into you. With one hand, he braces himself on your open leg. While the other is working magic with him thumb. Furiously, his thumb rubs back and forth over and over again on your sensitive clit.

Slapping a hand over your mouth, your eyes roll in the back of your head as your back arches. Yoongi chuckles before pulling you down the bean bag and hiking himself up the best he can to hover over you, causing him to hit even deeper inside of you. His hand soon flew to yours over your mouth as you let out a muffled cry of pleasure.

“I love listening to you,” he pants in your ear, and you mumble something unintelligible in return. “What was that, doll?” He asks, removing his hand, but his hips never stop rolling into yours.

“Please, come,” you beg.

Giving you an open mouth smirk, Yoongi ducks his head and claims your mouth. Much like you had, he throws caution to the wind and slams his hips into yours, rapidly not caring how much sound he was creating. In an instant, his arms were completely under you, almost scooping you up to press flush against him. One more shove of his hips, he grunts into your mouth and stills. The two of you collapse onto the squishy surface.

Wrapping your arms around his sweaty body, you hold him as close as you could, and your heart does something. Your rhythmic pounding skips a beat.

You like him.

You really like him.

“Do you want to be my date for my brother's stinking wedding?” You ask, fearful of his possible rejection.

Silence.

It's too long of a pause.

“You sound really excited to ask me,” he teases, laughing lightly. Shaking his sweaty hair out of his face, Yoongi holds himself up by his elbow and rests his face on the palm of his hand, looking down at you. “Do you really want me to go?”

You nod, and he lifts an eyebrow.

“Yes,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I need a date, and you're my best option.”

“You're so romantic,” he smirks. “That means I'll probably have to meet your parents. Like for real meet them.”

“Let's hold off for as long as we can on that,” you say.

“When's this little shindig?” He questions.

“First weekend of December,” you answer.

“I'll pencil you in,” he says, leaning down to kiss you softly.

“Just pencil?” You razz, pushing him gently off of you.

“Well, I'm hoping it doesn't happen, but I think you have a tendency of running away,” he says softly.

You look at him seriously. He looks back at you just the same. All the joking is gone.

“I'm right here,” you say.

“For now,” he states.

“I'm right here,” you say again with certainty. Standing, you hold out your hand for him to take. “Let's shower.”

Taking your hand, he stands with you before pulling your now cooled body into a hug. You want him to know it. You want him to know you like him. Like you said earlier, you weren't good at words. You will have to show him. You weren't quite sure how to do that, but it was going to take more than a blowjob and sex.

You'll figure it out.

You always do.

《Chapter 10》

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[borkunlimited]

Take Your Time, Miss Deer (Sylus x Reader) - Ch. 4

In a tailor shop tucked in the calmer side of the N109 zone is a little room where all clothes of many different designs come together under the delicate hands of an unassuming deer living in the den of all sorts of beasts and sitting on them is the dragon who wears your clothes.

Your many interactions with Skye, Mr. Sylus’ messenger or-

-Sylus is waiting for you to finally figure out he is playing his own messenger.

A Deer Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Fic

Tags: Sylus x Reader, Hybrid AU, Suggestive Themes, Fluff, Predator/Prey, Self-Harm

Chapter Summary: Horns. Antlers. A long tail with smooth scales. A short tail. If those are gone, then both of you are almost the same, right?

Author's Note: Some lines have references to existing media. I have been playing Disco Elysium every now and then with a dash of Reverse 1999. Still going with the main themes tackled by Beastars and BNA though but you know, I really do love certain lines from these games that I just want to put it in here as well.

Enjoy!

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

4: My Dearest, Generous

A little downpour has visited the N109 zone today.

It was close to the afternoon when you heard the soft pitter patter against the windows of your studio that is steadily increasing intensity within each passing minute and you immediately rushed to close them one by one, not wanting water to get inside and ruin the patterns and the fabrics you have prepared to sew for tomorrow.

You were about to close the last window when a small, dark figure zoomed past you, spreading droplets on the wooden floor.

It looks like your odd little crow friend has decided to take shelter here at your studio.

Daisy settled on one of the armchairs, shaking the excess rainwater that clung on its feathers, letting out an indignant caw before preening itself.

“I know. It is quite sudden,” you chuckled softly, locking the last window with your ears flicking away little beads of rainwater that clung on your fur.

Daisy seemed to also agree and it let you remove the damp good luck ribbon you have made for it. It is a little worse for wear now so maybe it is time to make a new one. 

Perhaps something more stylish? The image of your crow friend wearing a scarf made you smile. Very fitting because it is becoming colder but for now, another good luck ribbon with the color it prefers should do.

“It’s alright. I won’t throw it away,” you assured it when it hopped along with you, worried where you would put its cherished item.

Will you repair it? Mephisto thinks you can. 

If its master can repair its circuits easily then it thinks you can do the same. You seemed very capable of fixing everything after seeing you stitch together large tears on the twins’ jacket before so it also means piecing back its worn ribbon should be easy to you.

For Mephisto, it doesn’t matter if its good luck charm is slightly damaged (What do you mean it's hanging by a thread?) All the affections you have poured into that ribbon will always be there no matter how it looks and it feels rather naked now that you have removed it.

Your finger grazed against the old wood of the cabinet while you hum absentmindedly, counting the number of the rows of shelves that store everything you need to sew any of your clients’ requests.

‘Oh, dear stranger journeying to a far off land, how many days must pass till I see you again?’

Third column from the left of the cabinet. Above where you keep the little boxes of buttons of various colors, all neatly organized, and then you finally pull out the drawer to retrieve a box inside of it.

Your crow flapped up to your sewing table, watching you set the item and it hopped in excitement.

Mephisto knows this particular box. This is a box where you store all of its trinkets it gave to you (Fine, and its master’s too.)

It was one of the few belongings you brought along before you left the place you once called home with your father. 

A little gift to you when you were young by an old hybrid couple after you knitted them scarves. You never quite remember their faces anymore but even then, the memory of their gratitude lingered, the playful pinch on your cheeks when you handed them their scarves wrapped in brown paper and twine.

“Do you want me to play it?”, you asked Daisy, opening the box to reveal the various precious ores and gemstones resting together with the dried flowers your crow has brought for you.

All of it, hidden in one place, little memories preserved and forever cherished.

Mephisto let out a beep, a yes, its optics adjusting to take a recording once again of this little moment that it may or may not hold over its master’s head (Again) upon its return to the base when the rain subsides.

You nodded in approval, tying around Daisy’s old ribbon around one of the horns of the little black dragon figurine sitting inside the box then turned the key.

A soft melody began playing and both you and Daisy watched the black dragon spin among the field of red blossoms painted in the background as if it was chasing the white ribbon on its horn, a lonesome game but still fun while the two of you looked back at your reflections on the small mirror.

Mephisto pushed the top of its head under your chin, nuzzling you and you laughed softly, petting its back while you listened to the gentle lullaby.

“Quite a downpour, don’t you think?”

Your heart skipped a bit, the lullaby cut short as you immediately closed the box, pushing it near the pile of fabrics beside you. 

These impromptu guests of yours always catch you off guard. Perhaps it comes with their innate trait of being able to make their presence hidden until they choose to reveal themselves.

Or so you thought.

The door shut with a soft click, your surprise visitor making his way towards you and your eyes widened. His footsteps were quiet, almost like Skye’s and twins’ but how is it possible? How is it possible when you and the person standing across your table are certainly alike, are of-

-the same species.

You nodded slowly, and Daisy hopped between you and your visitor, silently assessing this newcomer, one of the many who had made themselves comfortable in your studio.

“Louis,” the deer hybrid said, raising his hand for you to shake which you returned, telling him your name in return but not like you need to tell him, he already knows about you anyways. Everyone who has transactions with Sylus is fully aware of who you are.

The seamstress who dresses all the wolves of this den in sheep’s clothing.

The deer fiercely guarded by the dragon kept in this hidden corner of the N109 zone.

The object of Sylus’ affections.

Or, from people who harbors deep hatred to Sylus-

Sylus’ well-seasoned meal.

“What brings you here, Mister Louis?”, you asked politely, your hands on your lap. You haven’t seen this deer before. 

Is he a new resident here in the N109 zone? 

He is well-dressed, clearly wealthy, and the cut of his clothes fit him well. 

His eyes lingered on Mephisto and he knew that this was the  little heathen made by Sylus to carry out his commands. One of his three errand runners  as people said who goes about doing his dirty work on his behalf. 

That dragon really does keep a close eye over you, doesn’t he?

It was almost concerning. A predator hybrid and prey hybrid spending too much time with each other spells trouble. Is Sylus fattening you up? A meal reserved for a special occasion?

“I heard you are Sylus’ personal tailor,” he said, walking around your studio, studying the clothes on display.

“Yes, but more like his lead tailor,” you corrected him, your eyes watching him closely. It has been so long since you have met your own kind. Is it comforting? Maybe, “He still has other tailors as well.”

“Did he come here often?”

“Oh, never.”

“Never?”

“Yes, he has yet to pay us a visit.”

His eyes narrow slightly at you. The word in the streets is that you and Sylus are seen together more often and people have claimed that he is very forward on his affections to you, how his tail wrapped around your waist, and even how he gazed at you as if when you tell him to jump, he will ask how high you want.

“He only sends his people here,” you continued but you caught the subtle hint of confusion in his gaze and then you added, “Good people.”

Good people?

A brief look of surprise crossed your visitor’s face. Did he hear that right?

You think those wolf cubs, that crow between you, and Sylus of all people are good ? 

Maybe it is true that every hybrids like you and him indeed lost their instincts when they stepped here in the N109 zone which is why your lot has to look after each other just in case, just in case that the beasts who reside here decide to remove their masks and hurt you just like how the humans did outside. 

Because you prey hybrids are just so damn pitiful.

“It didn’t cross your mind that they would hurt you?”

“Everyone who entered this room didn’t.”

“There will always be the first.”

“I trust them more over the humans,” you replied. His concern is valid, of course, and Mister Louis here isn’t the first prey hybrid who expressed his worry over you being friendly with any of your visitors.

Your father is a different case, though, who is specifically worried about Skye.

Skye, of all people.

Skye who never crossed the line when he was here. Skye who doesn’t have to stay but chose to. Skye who helps you if he doesn’t have to.

But you know their concern stems from reality. 

Humans. 

Predator hybrids. 

Prey hybrids. 

That’s how the hierarchy goes. That’s how it has always been. Your kind stood in a delicate balance, docile enough in the eyes of the humans that you are taken advantage of often and weaker than the weakest predator hybrid as long as they have fangs to nip and claws to scratch.

“We’re deers by the end of the day.”

“I know but even then, it doesn’t make much difference.”

If anything, predator or prey, you are all just animals in the eyes of humans.

Tainted blood.

“I appreciate your concern, Mister Louis,” you added politely, giving him a small smile. “But it wouldn’t be fair for us to judge them easily when they haven’t harmed any of us here so far.”

Louis studied you closely. You genuinely do believe that all of you hybrids are equal.

How naive. How idealistic.

It will take centuries or more for prey and predator hybrids to get along and another more for hybrids and humans.

But then again, your father did mention to him you would rather run towards the nearest predator hybrid when in danger than seek help from a human.

“You’re an odd deer, Miss,” he chuckled softly.

He pushed a small package towards you wrapped in old newspaper.

“But just so you know, I heard dragons play with their prey before they eat them alive.”

────────────────────

Sylus adores the subtle signs of affection every time he is visiting you.

The faint blush on your cheeks when he stepped in to observe what you were doing. How you automatically shift closer when his tail is wrapped around your waist or when you listen to his words, your ears flicking while you pay attention.

His species in particular are naturally warm yet he only grew to understand the value of another person’s warmth every time he is with you and if he only can pull you closer, it is an irrevocable fact that you will be the warmest treasure he ever had held in his hands.

Not because of the blood pumping on your veins.

But because of the peaceful grace you have with you.

The deer doesn’t need to step out of her meadow if anything. He had already stepped foot on your paradise under the sunlight that passed the trees and if he can, he doesn’t want to leave the only place that treated him with sincere kindness.

Today, Sylus has been eagerly looking forward to his visit despite the sudden downpour. 

As if a little rain would stop him from seeing his favorite deer and as usual, he is not one to be in your shop without gifts for you.

He gave your father an easy smile and the older deer simply nodded in return, a polite greeting, when the dragon hybrid passed by him.

Thirty steps from the entrance of your shop to the hallway and another set of ten from the hallway to your studio. Oh, Sylus can’t wait to see his hardworking darling and he was halfway to your studio when he stopped, his ears picking up your sweet voice from behind the closed door and well, well, what’s this?

His eyes narrowed, picking up the scent of another guest. Another deer hybrid just like you and-

-A male one.

Your voices were muffled by the walls of your studio but he would always recognize the always gentle and polite tone you used when talking to anyone.

Then, the door opened and Sylus immediately piece together the identity of the newcomer you were just talking to earlier.

He isn’t one to forget the name to the face, afterall.

A young upstart in the N109 zone trying to make a name and recently, the little birds had told him that this one is creating a small association for all prey hybrids living here, not that Sylus minds.

He caught the familiar scent of fear from the male deer hybrid but this one was able to put all of his apprehension under a nonchalant expression laced with subtle defiance.

This gaze is all too familiar to him at this point.

This visitor of yours does not like him.

“I was told you had never set foot in this shop,” the deer hybrid started, not looking away from Sylus.

Brave, perhaps there is a reason why this one managed to reel the leashes of all the predators following his orders but he has a thought that this particular hybrid will be a little nuisance.

“And what exactly have you been told?”, Sylus asked casually, studying the newcomer. A good looking one but he is aware your father wouldn’t set you up with anyone, not when the older deer had gotten the message loud and clear that he is pursuing you.

“The miss said you only send good people in this shop,” the deer hybrid answered, as if piecing together your words and Sylus’ presence, “That Sylus himself never set foot here. Not even once.”

“Is this miss lying, Sylus?” the deer hybrid continued, letting go of the door handle, “Or are you deceiving the poor girl?”

“You’re quite a detective, aren’t you?”

“I took it as my responsibility to look after people here who get too cozy with predators like you.”

“Are you implying I am going to snap and attack her one day?”

“There are too many cases of your kind that did,” the deer hybrid countered. 

These answers, these excuses. 

The same lines recited by predators who thought they could reel in their natural instincts and not harm the prey hybrids they claimed they love and adore.

“Oh really? I suppose you have a solution for that? Locking my sweetheart away just to make sure she is safe from the big bad dragon,” Sylus replied, taking a few steps forward but the deer hybrid did not seem to falter.

Sweetheart.

So the words are true. Sylus is indeed courting you in his own twisted way.

“No, my solution is not drastic,” the male retorted, walking towards him until they were shoulder to shoulder. “You still seemed a reasonable man so just a word of advice-”

“-Pursue your own kind and leave her alone.”

The newcomer walked away but Sylus can’t shake the audacity of this upstart. 

Why? 

Why do people think that he can’t love you or be loved by you just because of your differences?

If you removed your antlers and he cut his horns, both of you would have been humans and no one would bat an eye.

Sylus took a deep breath, the faint scent of rain still clung to his hair and clothes, calming him down slightly and even when the smell of your previous visitor hung about, he could still shift through all the mixed scents and pick up the aroma of cotton and wildflowers.

The scent of you.

It was more than enough to soothe him and then, he opened the door to your studio, ready to see you.

The tension that lingered on his interaction with your previous visitor breaks, in this room, in the garden of fabrics and threads where there is only the two of you, the world is a distant away. 

The ocean of chaos in his heart slowly subsides.

In this little piece of paradise, a small voice emerges. Yours .

The dearest thing he wants to hear for his remaining days.

“Skye, quite a rain we are having, don’t you think?”

If all the precious metals and minerals he had ever owned merged together, its value will not be able to measure up on the fondest smile you wear when you see him. 

Warm like the first rays of the sun after a long winter.

“Well, it certainly did not stop me, didn’t it?” he remarked, all the words the deer hybrid said to him fading in the background and your voice is the only sound he can hear.

He watched you move around your desk, coming close to him to examine him and he chuckled softly when you had to stand by your tiptoes to do so.

“Are you wet? Do you want me to get a towel for you?”, you fretted about.

“You’re so considerate,” he replied, his hands reaching out and settling on your waist to steady you, “But I’m fine, little doe.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have really come over. You might get sick,” you pointed out, looking up to him.

You’d be surprised how far his constitution goes as a dragon but then again, he does love being doted by you.

“I’ll be fine, sweetie.”

“You could always turn down Mr. Sylus. His gifts can always wait.”

“But bringing his gifts to you is the only task I do enjoy.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else, Skye?”, you asked while he brushes the threads hanging on your antlers. 

There are so many things he wants to ask from you. Those kisses you give freely to the twins and Mephisto, to hold you close and take in your comforting scent, and for you to finally call him by his real name but his requests, his pleas overflow, the words lost in his tongue and only then what matters is you, you, you.

Just you.

“Just keep doing your own thing, hm?”, Sylus replied, tapping your nose playfully.

“How about you help me and Daisy then?”, you asked, and you were so quick on pulling a chair for him, setting it beside where you usually sit on your sewing table, “If you don’t mind being my second assistant for today?”

His eyes fleeted on Mephisto which is busy shifting through the pile of fabrics you have laid out on the table. His mechanical crow really does enjoy spending time with you from the looks of it and he caught the absence of that familiar white ribbon you tried around its neck. 

Had his companion managed to lose its valuable treasure already? That seemed unlikely. He had seen Mephisto snap at another crow once who tried to pull it off its neck.

“Just tell me what to do, darling deer.”

“Daisy and I are making another good luck ribbon,” you said, sitting on your chair and you patted on the chair beside you, an indication for him to do the same which he gladly did. 

Oh, is that how that little item is called? No wonder Mephisto is very attached to it.

“A good luck ribbon?”

“Yes, to keep Daisy safe.”

“Well, isn’t Daisy a lucky bird to have you, miss seamstress.”

“I’ll make one for you as well, Skye”, you smiled, and the idea of having Mr. Sylus’ bodyguard wearing a ribbon in one of his horns sounds quite appealing to you. He would very much resemble the dragon figurine inside the music box you have beside you and he will be more approachable, you are sure.

“Are you saying I need good luck, sweetheart?”, he replied but he was already shifting through the fabrics laid out in front of him together with Mephisto and he already had a color in mind.

Afterall, he had always loved the color of your eyes. Warm, welcoming, and eager. He certainly wouldn’t mind a ribbon of that hue tied around one of his horns.

Your ears drooped slightly on his response, “You don’t want one?”

Oh, he doesn’t need luck. 

Not when he already has you near him but how could he resist that cute pout on your face? This little tactic of yours, even if you are not aware of it, always works so well that he always finds himself abiding to whatever you would say.

“Don’t give me that look, Miss Deer,” he gently chided you and tapped your nose, “Of course I want one.”

Your tail wagged just slightly upon hearing his reply. It always gives you a sense of purpose when people say they like to receive gifts from you and since you are now making him one, maybe you should sew one for Mr. Sylus as well, a little token of gratitude for all the gifts.

“Do you think Mr. Sylus would want one as well?”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

“What color do you think he would want?”

“Red,” Sylus replied, an idea already forming in his head after you are done with this project while he fiddled at the edge of the fabric that shares the color of your eyes, “Definitely red, sweetie.”

Daisy hopped near you, dragging its chosen fabric by its beak and Sylus shifted closer to you, your shoulders touching and ready to take any instructions you would give him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the sewing part.”

“Just say the word, miss seamstress.”

Certainly not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon with you.

────────────────────

Sylus had always detested the horns sitting on top of his head.

Monster.

Among the thousand curses and more he has been called, the word had always carried a certain weight every time humans and hybrids alike had laid eyes upon him. 

His kind is a rarity these days, a dying breed after being hunted and culled like livestocks when the humans had deemed they are a threat.

How many times had he sawed them off? He only lost that habit when he realized that they always grow back, more pointed than ever and-

-If he can’t convince his hunters he meant no harm, then it is time to prove their fears right.

The blood drips from the blade, into his face, and then into the white tiles of the bathroom. In this world overflowing with laughter mocking him from being the last of his kind, he had decided to level the playing field and carve a utopia for himself that slowly grew, a twisted safe haven initially meant for fiends such as him.

Then, on this land of despair, a small patch of paradise had taken root. Clearly impossible but certainly, without a doubt, a miracle.

Sylus then realized having horns isn’t too bad. A grotesque reflection of your elegant antlers, a bad imitation, but one of the similarities you both share.

“I am glad you love it, Daisy,” you clapped your hands, watching your odd little bird hopped about and turn for you and Skye, showing off the little ribbon you have sewn together.

His mechanical crow is more than pleased and Sylus is already sure it is about to show it off to the twins for receiving a new gift from you. 

It has become a little competition between those three and they don’t need to know that their boss is more than aware their contest involves who gets the most kisses and pats from you.

And here he is, sitting at the bottom of the list with the lowest score even if he isn’t technically part of that game.

“Do you want me to put on yours as well, Skye?”, you asked him.

“Just try not to tie it too tight, darling deer,” he said and he bent his head slightly, enough for you to reach his horn.

There was a shiver that ran on his spine when your fingers grazed his horn while you carefully fastened the ribbon around it and he let out a small whimper. 

It was a gesture of trust but you wouldn’t know that, not when it was common for you deer hybrids to touch each other’s antlers.

But it was more than a gesture of trust.

Afterall, Sylus is more than aware that his kind only allows closed family to touch their horns and-

-Their mate.

He almost sounded pathetic in his own ears and for once, he is afraid to see the look of pity on your eyes. Here is your liar, Miss Deer, he wants to tell you but he wouldn’t deny there is a hint of fear that eventually you will realize ‘Skye’ and ‘Mr. Sylus’ are one and the same. 

Would your fond gaze turn to fear by then?

“Oh, did I put it on too tight?”, you asked when your ears picked up the sound he made.

It was not pity that he saw but a flicker of concern if you have hurt him and oh, his sweetheart, always so caring. What did he do to deserve your kindness?

Too tight? Hardly. Your touch was so gentle, so unfamiliar yet he yearned for more.

“No sweetheart, you haven’t,” he replied and then you let out a small laugh when he pinched your cheek.

“I am glad,” you nodded and you studied the bow closely placed at the base of his horn. You should put more ribbons on him because it certainly made him look less threatening. 

Maybe then, your clients wouldn’t have a heart attack if you and him had to go again to do a delivery run soon. 

“It really looks good on you, Skye. People would believe you are a nice and friendly dragon now.”

“Perhaps I should wear ribbons more often then,” he joked but your ears seemed to perk up at his comment, and he caught the anticipation in your eyes at the prospect of making him more bows.

You nodded, and he froze slightly when you rub your antlers against his horn where the ribbon is tied in approval, “That sounds great. I can’t wait to see you in them.”

How many years has it that Sylus had long for such affection? To be treated gently and not as a lesser animal? Now, all of those wishes, his yearning for love that he thought he will never have, were slowly fulfilled unknowingly by you and he closed his eyes, rubbing his horns back to you.

“And I can’t wait to try out more ribbons for you, sweetie.”

“I hope Mr. Sylus will like what I made as much as you do, Skye.”

He may have stayed longer than usual today, especially when you ask him to only leave when the rain stopped. The sound of the downpour, the soft conversation between the two of you, and the sewing machine humming filled the room and even when evening fell, he watched you still push through, making your patterns, until you accidentally dozed off mid-conversation.

Little deer always forgets she is in the company of a beast.

He gently tucked your hair behind your ear, his hand lightly grazing the fur from the base until the tip, fleeting, not enough for you to even stir and the red gemstone that adorn your hairpin twinkled for a moment, like a wink.

Sylus left Mephisto with you, who almost looked like a plushie with you curled up against his companion and he set the gift he had brought for you near your hand holding the pencil.

Perhaps this is the start of another small game. A back and forth. A gift from him in exchange for a little trinket from you this time but Sylus will have to see.

He tied the red ribbon you said to give to ‘Mr. Sylus’ upon his return around the leather strap of his watch before he left your studio.

A small smile formed in Sylus’ lips when he took one glimpse of you before leaving.

If you opened your eyes, you will see that your Mr. Sylus is already more than pleased.

────────────────────

It was such a relief to see the boss returned to the base all too pleased with himself.

Luke and Kieran never found out what actually ticked him off last time he had visited you and their little investigation never arrived on a conclusion because you just looked at them confused when they tried to ask you if you and the boss had a little misunderstanding.

“Do you think he got upset because I asked for a piece of his lemon tart?”

They decided not to press on further, not wanting to upset you (Also because you offered to share the box of macarons they stole given to them begrudgingly by that cute, feisty sheep hybrid.)

They welcomed him in the base as routine but mostly because they are excited to see their father boss once again and he is usually more forgiving with their little antics every time he sees you, their tails wagging in excitement.

(Not that they blew up something again. They have been good while he is away for once. This whole sewing hobby is really taking up their free time.)

Yet, when Sylus went past the double doors of the base, they caught a scent quite strong that clung on him.

The scent of cotton and wildflowers.

Luke and Kieran looked at each other, a flicker of understanding. Is that why the boss is happier today?

“Boss, why do you smell like Miss Deer-”, Luke was about to ask but let out a yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes yet even then, the question had already made its way into his ears.

“What are you two on about?”, he asked, a small smirk tugging on his lips. He knows these two wolf cubs had a superior sense of smell, an already inherent trait for wolf hybrids amplified by whatever the humans did to them before arriving here in the N109 zone.

That little gesture of yours where you rubbed your antlers against his horns is supposed to be an affectionate one, fairly common among deer hybrids who are known for being very friendly to those they like.

He is still wearing the little ribbons you made for him which he had not removed until now but he is more than aware you have unknowingly left your scent on him.

Not that he minds, anyways, especially when he had also left his on yours as well.

He had to give these two points for asking him bluntly unlike your father who had given him an odd look when he exited your shop but he is sure you will be able to clear everything up. 

You are not one for lying after all.

But these wolf cubs have no sense of subtlety. So nosy.

“Did you and Miss Deer had-”, Luke let out another yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes again, “Can you stop that, Kieran?”

“I am not giving you allowance for you both to sniff on my clothes,” Sylus said dryly.

The two looked at each other, their tails wagging harder. They wouldn’t dare do that knowing full enough the boss retaliates during their sparring sessions and it wasn’t their fault when their noses can smell up to miles.

“Come on, boss,” Kieran said, the two walking with him deeper into the base, “We aren’t animals.”

“Actually, it is pretty much stronger around your horns,” Luke piped and his eyes widened slightly, noticing the ribbon fastened on the base of his horn and another one in his watch.

The twins looked at each other, their eyes studying the neck scarves you have gifted them.

The boss had finally received a gift from you just like they did.

“You both are acting like animals.”

But the little scratch he gave them on the back of their pointed ears betrayed his words.

.

.

.

Little gremlins.

────────────────────

Author's Note: Yes, I borrowed Louis from Beastars. He is absolutely necessary in the world building of this story even if he will appear here just ONCE. What did Louis left at Miss Deer's table? What is Sylus' gift? These will all be revealed in due time.

Will there be a side story with the twins? Maybe, maybe. We will see how the stars will align in the coming months.

Anyways, this is so fun to write. I try to write in between my free time and sometimes I just woke up at 2am because the ideas JUST HAD TO COME AT THAT TIME.

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

[lbxbx]

Ten steps to you 1 | Jjk

Pair: reader x Jungkook

Summary: A swipe right felt risky, but this time it might be different. You and Jungkook meet for a first date to see where it leads - and it doesn't feel half bad.

Genre: strangers to lovers, modern romance, slow burn.

No one ever tells you that dating in your late twenties can feel like a full-time job. That’s the only thing running through your head as you get ready for yet another first date—one of many this year.

You still get that weird feeling in your stomach before each one. A mix of nerves and hope, even if you’re tired of it all by now. This year’s been… a lot.

There was the firefighter—you actually felt kind of hopeful on the second date. But then it hit you: dating someone who works 24-hour shifts and disappears for days? Probably not the best setup for a future together.

Then came the “entrepreneur.” Which, as it turns out, was just a nicer way of saying “unemployed and lonely.” You almost cried halfway through the date, but managed to hold it together—until he casually mentioned he still lived with his parents. No offense, but that was definitely not for you.

It wasn’t always them—sometimes, it was you.

Like that time you went out with a vet who was ridiculously attractive, smart, and funny. Honestly, the whole package. But then… he just never called back.

To be fair, you’re pretty gorgeous yourself. But him? He looked like he’d just walked off the cover of a magazine.

You grab your purse and car keys, ready to leave your apartment. You swiped right on a guy last night, exchanged a few messages, and he lives really close by. He seems nice, with an interesting lifestyle, a bunch of cool hobbies, and—thankfully—a regular job.

You both decided to try the new Japanese place that just opened a few blocks away. You’re both curious about the food, so it sounded like a perfect plan.

Your outfit totally shows your personality—a white summer dress covered in tiny cherries, paired with a denim jacket because it’s still May, and Seoul evenings can be pretty chilly.

That weird flutter in your stomach won’t quit. What if he’s not who he says he is? Maybe those photos belong to some model, not this guy. Or worse—he could be the kind of person who makes bad jokes and worse conversation. Awkward silences? Guaranteed.

But hey, you’ve been down this road too many times to freak out now. You know the drill: scan for exit routes, keep your phone close, and if things get unbearable, make a quick dash to the ladies’ room and disappear.

You’ve got this. Worst case, it’s just another story for the “date fails” collection.

You hop into your car and start the short drive—even if the place is close, walking in heels is a no from you. The radio hums with soft background music until, of all things, it cuts to an ad for the very restaurant you’re heading to. You actually let out a small laugh.

Honestly, you are a little excited. You haven’t eaten all day, partially out of nerves, mostly to justify going all-out for dinner.

The drive barely takes eight minutes. You park, smooth down your dress, and head inside.

Okay, deep breath.

You start scanning the room. He said he’s about 5’10, dark hair, heavily tatted—not that that part will help unless he decided to show up half-naked (doubtful). But you remember his round eyes, and the single dimple on his left cheek—that should do it.

Your eyes sweep the room, and there he is. One of the only people sitting alone, surrounded by couples and noisy families. And he’s already seen you—his eyes are locked onto yours, calm but expectant, it seems like he’s been waiting for you for a while.

He lifts a hand to wave, and you feel that flicker of nerves again as you start walking toward the table.

Okay—at least it’s him.

Actually, it’s better than the pictures.

“Hey, how are you?” you say, flashing a polite smile, nerves barely tucked behind your lips.

He stands to greet you, offering a friendly handshake and a confident, easy smile. “Good. How are you?”

“I’m good,” you reply, glancing around. “It’s kind of crowded for a newly opened place. I wasn’t expecting that.”

You’re just about to pull out your chair when he beats you to it, stepping in smoothly to help. He waits for you to sit, then gently pushes your chair forward like it’s second nature.

Well then.

“Thank you,” you say, a little surprised. What a Gentleman.

He takes his seat across from you, resting his arms lightly on the table. “So,” he says, “are you as excited about this food as I am? I haven’t stopped thinking about sushi all day and to top it off, their ads were on the radio the entire day.”

You let out a small laugh. “Same. I literally didn’t eat anything today just to go all out.”

That makes you sound like the binge monster you are, if you could only go back in time and scratch that line.

His brows lift. “Bold move. Starving yourself before raw fish.”

“Risky, I know,” you say, smiling. “But I had a good feeling. And I figured worst case, at least I get good food out of it.” What is the matter with you.

Luckily he chuckles. “Fair. Though I’m hoping it ends up being slightly better than just good food.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Is that your way of saying you’re trying to charm me already?”

“I mean,” he shrugs with a grin, “would it be too forward if I said yes?”

“A little,” you tease, “but I’ll allow it.”

A small silence settles between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. He reaches for his glass of water and says, “So what made you swipe right? Was it my very serious photo holding a dead fish? Or the one where I look like I’m about to go to church?”

You laugh. “Honestly? It was the dead fish. Kinda provoked that sushi craving.”

He nods solemnly. “Charming you seems to be working.”

You laugh again, this time a little more relaxed.

It feels so easy to talk to him, you didn’t get too excited, you felt the same on previous date and they all failed.

The waiter stops by to hand over menus, and the two of you take a moment to flip through the pages.

“I have no idea what half of this is,” he says, squinting at the list of rolls. “But I’m willing to be brave tonight.”

You smirk. “That’s the spirit. Just don’t pick the one with fermented squid. I made that mistake once. Never again.”

He laughs. “Noted. Avoid anything that sounds like it could still move.”

There’s a short pause while you both scan the menu. Then he looks up.

“So…you mentioned in your profile you work in marketing?”

“Mhm. I spend most of my days talking to my laptop and accidentally forgetting to eat.”

“Dangerous lifestyle,” he says, mock-serious. “You need structured snack breaks.”

“Oh, believe me, I try. But sometimes it’s just me, three tabs open, a cold cup of coffee, and existential dread.”

He laughs. “Wow, okay. You really sold the work-from-home dream there.”

You shrug. “It has its perks. Pajamas. Flexible hours. Zero coworkers who steal your lunch.”

He nods thoughtfully. “You might’ve just convinced me to turn the library into a remote-only job.”

Yes he was a librarian, most of the photos on his profile were book recommendations even.

“you own a library?”

He smiles like it’s something he hears often—but still enjoys talking about. “Yeah. It was my grandfather’s, actually. I took it over a couple years ago.”

“That’s… kind of dreamy, honestly,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Like something out of a romance novel.”

He laughs. “I’ve been told. But it’s a lot less glamorous when you’re the one fixing leaking pipes and reshelving books at 10 p.m.”

You grin. “Still. You get to be surrounded by stories all day.”

He nods. “Yeah, that’s the part I love. Quiet mornings, regulars who stay for hours, and watching kids discover their first favorite book.”

Your smile softens. “That sounds peaceful.”

He watches you for a second, and the air between you shifts—still light, still easy, but something a little deeper underneath now.

The waiter appears just in time with your drinks, setting them down with a polite nod. You both murmur your thanks, and as the waiter walks off, you find his eyes on you again.

“So,” he says, wrapping his fingers around his glass, “what’s the story that clicked for you when you were a kid?”

You blink, a little surprised—but you kind of love the question.

You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table. “You really want to talk childhood books on a first date?”

“Absolutely,” he says without missing a beat. “It’s more telling than zodiac signs.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “Okay, fair. But I’m warning you, mine’s not very high-brow.”

He leans in just a little, playful. “No judgment. Unless it’s something cursed like Captain Underpants.”

You laugh. “Honestly? Close. But no. Mine was Matilda.”

His eyebrows lift. “Matilda?”

You nod. “I must’ve read it a dozen times. Something about this tiny girl who reads books and makes things float with her mind just… hit.”

“Powerful introvert energy,” he says, grinning.

You smile, a little softer now. “It made me feel like being quiet wasn’t a flaw. Like there was strength in it. And maybe if I read enough books, I’d figure everything out, too.”

He watches you for a moment—really watches you—and the smile on his face shifts. Not playful, not teasing. Just… warm.

“That makes sense,” he says gently. “You’ve got that same vibe, actually.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Matilda vibe?”

He nods. “Like you’re sitting on a thousand thoughts you haven’t said yet.”

You blink, caught off guard in the best way. “That’s either a compliment or a slightly poetic accusation.”

“Definitely a compliment,” he says. “But I’ll admit—it’s also a little intimidating.”

You laugh, flustered but flattered. “I didn’t think I was going to be the intimidating one here. You’re the one who runs a literal storybook setting.”

He chuckles and leans back. “Touché.”

There’s a pause, but this time it’s comfortable. You both sip your drinks. The restaurant hums around you—quiet clinks of chopsticks, the murmur of conversations, soft music overhead.

For the first time in a while, you feel like you’re not on a date you’re waiting to escape.

You’re just… here. And it feels kind of good.

The waiter returns with a small notepad in hand, giving you both a polite smile.

“Are you ready to order?” he asks.

You glance at your date. “I think so.”

He nods. “Yeah—let’s do it.”

You look down at the menu one last time. “Okay, I’m definitely starting with miso soup. And I want to try the pork Katsu… and maybe the salmon nigiri?”

“The pork Katsu? From their ads? Going in with confidence,” he says, clearly impressed. “I respect that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘just edamame and call it a night’ people.”

He laughs. “Please, I’ve been thinking about sushi since this morning. Can i please get the eel avocado roll, the veggie gyoza, and… you know what, throw in the tempura shrimp too. Let’s go wild.”

“Now that’s the energy,” you say, handing your menu back to the waiter. “Thank you.”

He collects both of your menus with a nod. “It’ll be out shortly.”

As soon as the waiter leaves, your date leans in slightly. “Okay, be honest. Are you going to judge me for ordering eel?”

You squint at him dramatically. “That depends. Are you the kind of person who orders it because you love it? Or because you want to seem adventurous?”

He laughs. “Definitely love it. First time I had it, I was like, ‘Why does no one tell you sushi can taste like barbecue?’”

You pretend to gasp. “Oh no. You’re one of those dramatic food people.”

“Absolutely,” he says proudly. “Food is emotional. I will stand by that.”

You shake your head with a grin. “I can’t even argue. I almost cried once over a perfectly soft-boiled egg.”

“I knew we were going to get along,” he says, leaning back with a satisfied smile.

The two of you are still sipping drinks, waiting on the food. You lean back in your chair a little, feeling more relaxed than you expected to be on a first date.

“So,” you say casually, swirling your straw around the ice in your glass, “can I ask something slightly nosy?”

He looks intrigued. “I like nosy. Go ahead.”

You rest your elbow on the table and prop your chin in your hand. “Why are you on a dating app? Like… what’s the actual end goal?”

He lifts a brow, amused but not thrown. “Wow, just diving right into it, huh?”

You smile. “I mean, better to ask now than after three months of ‘vibing,’ right?”

He nods slowly. “Fair enough.”

Then he looks you dead in the eye—calm, clear, honest. “I’m dating to find someone I want to marry.”

You’re quiet for a second, surprised more by his certainty than the answer itself.

“No weird games. No just-seeing-where-this-goes. I want something stable, real. Someone I can build with. I’m not rushing into anything—but I’m also not pretending I’m twenty-two.”

“I don’t mean tomorrow,” he adds with a small smile. “But I’ve done the whole casual, let’s-not-label-it thing. I want something serious. A partner. Someone I can build a life with, share quiet mornings with, grow old with. I’m ready for that.”

You nod slowly, letting the words settle. It’s not intimidating—it’s honest. And that’s rare.

“I like that you’re sure of what you want.” You study him for a moment, and then nod. “That’s… refreshingly direct.”

He smiles, just a little. “You?”

You lean back, lips pressed thoughtfully before you answer. “I guess… I’m not quite there yet. I mean—I want a real relationship. I want someone solid. Someone who actually shows up. But I’m not dating with a ring in mind.”

You pause, shrug lightly. “I’ve just been single for a while. And I’m tired of the games. Tired of the weird in-between stuff. I want to share my life with someone, laugh with them, eat takeout on the couch, be each other’s person. And yeah… if it leads to something long-term, even marriage someday, then great. But right now? I just want something real.”

He nods, quiet for a beat. “That makes sense. Honestly, that’s a better answer than most.”

You smile. “You expected something worse?”

He chuckles. “No. Just… I like that you’re clear about how you feel without needing to turn it into a checklist.”

Just then, the waiter returns with your food, setting it down between you—miso soup, crispy tempura, rolls lined up like art. Both of you instinctively lean in, admiring the spread.

“I feel like we earned this conversation,” you say, grinning.

He lifts his chopsticks. “Now the real question is… can we still like each other after watching how the other eats sushi?”

You laugh, already reaching for the soy sauce. “Challenge accepted.”

You’re both a few bites in, and it’s good. Really good. You let out a small, unintentional hum of approval as you try the salmon nigiri.

“That’s your food-happy sound?” he asks, smirking over the rim of his water glass.

You laugh, a little caught. “It might be. I’m not proud.”

“No, I like it,” he says, playful but sincere. “It’s honest.”

You look at him then, really look—dark hair falling a little onto his forehead, easy posture, the kind of guy who listens with his eyes. And it hits you: something about him is just… different. Calmer. Like he’s not performing or trying to win you over—he’s just there. Present.

You hadn’t realized how rare that is until now.

“You’re really chill,” you say, before you think to filter it.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a good thing?”

You nod quickly. “Yeah. Definitely. Just… most guys talk like they’re on a sales pitch. You’re like the opposite.”

He grins. “So I’m failing the pitch?”

You shake your head, smiling. “You’re making it feel like a conversation. Like we’re… not strangers, somehow.”

It sounds dumb as soon as it leaves your mouth, but he doesn’t laugh.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I get that.”

And there’s a moment—a quiet, suspended kind of moment—where he just holds your gaze, and you feel it settle into your chest. Not butterflies. Not fireworks. Something steadier. A sense of ease.

You look down, suddenly too aware of your own expression, and reach for a piece of sushi. “So… what’s the weirdest thing someone’s ever said to you on a first date?”

He laughs, clearly delighted by the shift. “Oh, easy. One girl asked me if I believed in ghosts before we even ordered drinks. Then told me her last relationship ended because she was ‘too psychically sensitive.’”

Your eyes widen. “You’re lying.”

“I swear on this eel roll.”

You laugh. “That is… beautifully unhinged.”

He points at you with his chopsticks. “Your turn.”

You hesitate, then smirk. “One guy told me on the first date that he felt a ‘spiritual obligation’ to cheat on women because of a past-life betrayal.”

He stares at you. “That’s not real.”

“It is, and I excused myself to the ladies room and never showed back up.”

He bursts out laughing, and you find yourself watching him again—how easily he laughs, how warm his eyes are, how natural this feels. Like a conversation you didn’t realize you’d been needing.

You sip your drink, and in the back of your mind, the thought quietly floats up:

This one feels different.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t immediately push the thought away.

You’re halfway through your rolls when he leans his elbow on the table, chopsticks resting in one hand. “So… what’s your family like?”

You pause for a second, then smile, a little caught off guard—not because it’s too personal, but because no one’s asked in a while.

“Messy,” you say honestly. “Loud. Complicated. Loving in their own weird ways.”

He smiles at the way you say it, encouraging you to go on.

“I’ve got an older sister who’s the definition of ‘got her life together.’ Married, two kids, perfect house, color-coded pantry. And then there’s me.” You gesture at yourself with mock dramatics. “Still figuring things out, occasionally eating cereal for dinner.”

“I mean,” he says, “cereal for dinner is a perfectly valid adult meal.”

“Exactly! Thank you.”

He chuckles. “Your parents?”

You twirl a piece of ginger on your plate before answering. “They’re sweet. Traditional. A little confused about why I’m not married yet, but… they’re good people.”

You glance up. “What about you?”

He sets his chopsticks down and leans back slightly, like he’s settling into the question. “My family’s… pretty close, actually. My parents live just outside the city. Still together after thirty-something years, somehow.”

You smile. “That’s kind of rare these days.”

“Yeah,” he says with a soft nod. “They drive each other crazy, but it works. My mom is a force—like, the type who’ll call just to check if I’ve eaten lunch. And my dad is quiet. Steady. Grew up fixing everything with duct tape and silence.”

You laugh gently at that, already picturing it. “Siblings?”

“One older brother,” he says. “Married. Two kids. They live in Busan, but they visit a lot. My niece is in this phase where she thinks I’m cooler than her dad, which I fully encourage.”

You grin. “Uncle points.”

“Exactly. I bribe her with books and chocolate.”

“You’re dangerous.” You rest your chin on your hand, eyes still on him. “You strike me as the type who keeps a small, loyal circle. Am I right?”

He chuckles. “Pretty much. I’ve got six really close friends.”

“Six?” you raise an eyebrow. “That’s a lot for a ‘small circle.’”

He grins. “I mean, we’ve known each other for years. Some since middle school, a couple from college, and one who showed up out of nowhere and just… never left.”

You laugh. “So it’s a real crew.”

“Oh yeah. Group chats, chaotic birthdays, too many inside jokes. They’ve seen me through all kinds of stuff—bad relationships, family drama, existential crises over overdue book orders.”

“Now that’s friendship,” you say, smiling. “Do they give you a hard time about dating?”

“All the time,” he says. “They think I’m too picky.”

You tilt your head, curious. “Are you?”

He shrugs, thoughtful. “Maybe. But not in the way they think. I’m not looking for perfect. I just want something… real. Safe. Honest.”

You look at him for a beat, absorbing that answer, how sincere it sounds. Then you lean back in your chair with a small smile. “You really are kind of a unicorn.”

He laughs. “You say that now. Wait until I start quoting obscure literature or alphabetizing my spice rack.”

You smirk. “You alphabetize your spices?”

“I’m not gonna answer that.” He shakes his head still laughing. Totally guilty.

The server walks away with your dessert order—green tea ice cream for you, mochi and black sesame cake for him—and the conversation settles again into that easy rhythm.

He takes a sip of his drink, then tilts his head slightly toward you.

“What about you?” he asks. “Your friends. You mentioned a small circle earlier.”

You nod slowly, fingers lightly tapping your glass. “Yeah… I’ve got a few good ones. We’ve been through a lot together.”

He notices your tone shift—a little softer now, more careful.

“One of them—my best friend—we had a bit of a falling out last year,” you admit. “Over something stupid at first. But then everything just… cracked open.”

He doesn’t jump in to ask questions or fix anything. He just listens.

“I think when you’re used to having that one person you always call, it’s jarring when suddenly… they’re just gone.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That kind of silence sticks.”

You glance at him, surprised he gets it so easily.

“She was the kind of friend who knew what I was thinking before I did. And I keep thinking one of us will just text, and it’ll go back to how it was. But neither of us has.”

“Sounds like it still hurts,” he says gently.

You nod once, then offer a small, wry smile. “That’s probably why I’ve been spending so much time alone lately. Working from home doesn’t exactly help.”

He pauses for a beat, then says softly, “I’m sorry you lost that. Really.”

You look down at your napkin, then up at him again, your voice quieter now. “It’s nice talking to someone who doesn’t brush past things.”

“Well,” he says, eyes still on you, “you don’t really strike me as someone I want to brush past.”

The way he says it—it’s not flirty, not forced. Just sincere.

You blink once, caught off guard in the best way.

And maybe that’s when it clicks for you. The quiet feeling you’ve had since the moment you sat down. The ease, the openness. The way he makes space for your honesty, not just your charm.

You watch as the waiter sets down the desserts, the sweet aroma filling the air. Honestly, this place was a great find—the dinner was incredible, and just one bite into your dessert confirms you’re definitely coming back.

“Okay, let’s play a quick game,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “A game?”

“Mhm.” He swallows his bite, then shifts comfortably in his seat. “We take turns asking each other questions—no skipping, no lying. Just to get to know each other better.”

You chuckle softly. “Like truth or dare, but just truth.”

“Exactly. I’ll give you the chance to start first.”

You take a moment, then grin mischievously. “If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

He laughs quietly and scratches right under his ear. “Wasn’t expecting this question, but it would definitely be pizza. You?”

“Ice cream. All kinds.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Good choice. Sweet and versatile.”

The questions flow, light and playful—a perfect way to break the ice. But then, his tone softens, and he asks, “What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intensity of the question. But then you met his eyes and felt safe.

Your smile falters slightly, but you meet his gaze. “I guess… I’ve always been scared of failing. Like, what if I’m not enough?”

And he caught you off guard when he leans his elbows on the table, his arm slowly moving to brush your hair behind your ear, “Mhm, I get that.”

“What about you?” you ask, voice quieter now.

He hesitates, then confesses, “I’ve always felt like I have to prove myself. Like I’m carrying the weight of everyone’s expectations.”

You feel the urge to make a move, “That’s a heavy burden.” You twirl your thumb on his tatted finger slowly.

He smiles softly, eyes locking onto your thumb before they lock onto yours. There’s a brief pause, filled only by the soft hum of the restaurant around you. Then, with a teasing glint back in his eyes, he asks, “Okay, your turn. What’s something about me you want to know but haven’t asked yet?”

You think for a second, then grin. “What’s your guilty pleasure song? You know, the one you sing when no one’s watching.”

He laughs—a sound that’s low and genuine. “Honestly? ‘Call Me Maybe.’ Don’t judge.”

You laugh with him, the tension easing more as you go. “No judgment here. I’m tempted to ask for a demonstration.”

He laughs. “Absolutely, I feel like you need to see me perform this, it actually shows my true colors.”

-

The restaurant’s warm glow faded behind you both as you stepped out into the cool night air. The gentle hum of the city wrapped around you like a quiet melody, the night alive but somehow peaceful. He slipped his hands casually into his pockets, walking beside you with a relaxed confidence that made your heart flutter.

“You have to tell me if you want to come back here,” he said, glancing sideways with a smile. “I’m definitely making this one a regular spot.”

You smiled back, the night’s warmth still lingering in your cheeks. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

The walk to your car felt both too short and just right. Every step was quiet but full of meaning — the kind of comfortable silence that didn’t need to be filled with words. When you reached your car, he stopped, turning to face you fully.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he said softly, eyes searching yours.

“Me too,” you replied, voice a little breathy. The way his gaze held you made it hard to look away.

For a moment, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath. Then he reached out gently, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a second longer than expected.

“Can I see you again?” His question was almost a whisper.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you nodded, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He grinned, and then, before you could say anything else, he leaned in, pressing a soft, warm kiss just below your ear. Your skin tingled, and a slow smile spread across your face.

“Goodnight,” he said, stepping back but not breaking eye contact.

“Goodnight,” you breathed, unlocking your car door and sliding inside.

Once the door closed behind you, the world outside felt suddenly still. You rested your hands on the steering wheel, taking a slow, deep breath.

The way he looked at you—the way he listened, really listened—it was different from anything you’d felt before. Not rushed, not forced. Just… easy. Like you could be yourself without worry.

The playful game, the silly questions that made you laugh, then the quiet moments when he shared pieces of himself you weren’t expecting. Vulnerability. And you shared yours too, something you rarely did on a first date.

You caught yourself smiling at the memory of him brushing your hair away, the softness in his eyes when he asked to see you again.

Maybe this was more than just a first date.

Maybe this was the start of something different.

You turned the key in the ignition, but for a moment, you didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

The night was still young. And somewhere deep inside, a hopeful warmth bloomed — the kind that told you this was just the beginning.

-

Back home, after peeling off your shoes and tossing your purse onto the couch, you finally exhale. The door clicks shut behind you and silence wraps around the apartment, but it’s not empty—it’s filled with the echo of his laugh, his voice in your ears, the way he said your name like it was a secret worth keeping.

You make a beeline for your room, kick off your jeans, and throw on an old oversized T-shirt. The night is quiet and you’re too warm, too wired to sleep. So you lie on your bed, staring at the ceiling, phone in hand.

Your phone buzzes.

[Jungkook]: made it home okay?

You grin, typing back quickly.

[You]: yep. kicked off my shoes the second i got in. thanks for walking me to my car :)

[Jungkook]: my pleasure. i still think i could’ve kept you out for another hour. maybe two.

You smile, heart fluttering again.

[You]: what would we even do for two more hours?

His typing bubble appears instantly.

[Jungkook]: watch the city lights. steal more of your dessert.

[You]: rude.

[Jungkook]: romantic.

You roll your eyes playfully, already sinking deeper into the memory of the night.

[Jungkook]: i’m already thinking about our second date btw.

You bite your lip, sit up slightly in bed.

[You]: oh? bold of you to assume there’ll be one.

[Jungkook]: bold of you to pretend you’re not waiting for me to say when.

You laugh out loud, covering your face.

[You]: okay then, genius. what’s your plan?

[Jungkook]: three options: 1. We could rent a boat and go fishing. 2. late-night drive with terrible music and snacks. 3. Karaoke bar where I could do an outstanding performance just for you.

Your fingers hover over the screen.

[You]: those are unfairly good options.

[Jungkook]: you’ll get all three eventually. but i wanna know which one wins first.

Your eyes start to flutter as sleep creeps up on you, but your heart is too soft, too full. You yawn, smiling as you type:

[You]: surprise me. i trust your taste.

His reply comes just as your phone begins to slip from your hand.

[Jungkook]: then get some sleep. you’ve got a second date to prepare for 😜

You drift off before you can reply, smile still curled on your lips. And somewhere, not too far from here, Jungkook sets his phone down with a grin that matches yours, already planning the next time he gets to make you laugh

[holylulusworld]

A perfect gentleman

Summary: Your trip to Great Britain changed your life forever.

Pairing: Raymond Smith x fem!Reader

Warning: bitchy friends, mentions of anxiety, meet cute, sex with a stranger, smut, protected sex, unprotected sex, public sex, shower sex

You bobbed your head to the song blaring from the loudspeakers. It was the only thing you could do. That, and watching the others dance with men they just met. Grinding into them – their intentions clear.

Maybe you are not the most social person, but being in a place with so many people spiked your anxiety.

You shuddered and ripped your gaze from your friends to order another drink. Something light. You never were much into alcohol.

“You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself,” a man plopped down next to you and dipped his head. “How can I help you relax?” He purred and moved his hand to your thigh.

“You could start by stopping to touch her,” another man suddenly stood behind your back. He pushed the other guy off you and glared at the stranger touching you. “Is that the way to welcome tourists now?”

“Man, she looked lonely,” the man grunted but made space for the second guy. “Didn’t know you called dips on her already, Raymond.”

“Get lost,” Raymond snapped at the man. You flinched and tried to make yourself as small as possible while the men fought. “We don’t harass ladies at my favorite place.”

“Alright, alright,” the man huffed. “She’s not worth the effort. You can have her.”

“Hey, are you okay,” Raymond softly asked. He must’ve been from around, because of his sexy accent. You always had a thing for men with an accent. “I hope he didn’t hurt you. Some guys shouldn’t drink too much.”

“Uh-thank you,” you murmured and finally looked at the man. Raymond looked like you imagine a British gentleman, but with a dash of roughness and something hidden behind his neat appearance. 

He was wearing a navy-blue corduroy waistcoat, a slim tie with the same color, and a light blue and white striped button-down over dark wash slim-fit stretch jeans. His hair was neatly gelled back, and his beard was long but well-trimmed. Orange-rimmed clear lens glasses framed his handsome face.

“That was very nice of you.”

“A gentleman must protect a lady in need,” he grinned and sat next to you. “Let me buy you a drink for the inconvenience, and for not stepping in sooner.”

“You came the moment the man put his hand on my thigh,” you shyly glanced at Raymond. He offered his name to you and held out his hand. You placed your hand in his, feeling another shudder run through your body. This man was unlike any guy you ever met.

He screamed danger but acted like a gentleman. You could smell weed on his clothes when he leaned closer to ask you for your name. 

“Y/N,” you replied and allowed him to hold your hand for a little longer than needed. He ran his thumb over your skin, causing a tiny whimper to escape your lips. “Thank you again.”

“What brings you here, love?” Raymond leaned impossibly closer, letting you feel his warmth. “I assume you are a tourist.”

You chuckled. “What gave me away?” 

“Your accent, and I know every pretty girl in town.”He laid it on thick when he purred your name and told you that you look beautiful in your dress. He already had you when he saved you from the grabby guy, but you wanted to bask in his compliments for a little longer.

“Every single one,” you chuckled. “You’re a very busy man in that case.” 

He adjusted his glasses and smirked. “I don’t know every woman like that.” Raymond gave you a wink. “But I’d like to get to know you better.”

“My friends are still somewhere at this place,” you leaned closer to drink his appearance and scent in. You were enchanted by this man. “Probably rubbing themselves against the guys they just met.”

His eyes sparkled at your words. You were about to do the same with him. Why – you had no clue. He was handsome and charming. But there was something else drawing you in like the moth to the flame.

“Do you want to leave this place?” A question was not in his words when he got up, still holding your hand. “I promise to be a gentleman.”

You didn’t make it far. Before you knew it, you left the bar with Raymond. You ended up pressed into the wall in the dark alley behind the bar. 

He was all over you, lips devouring your mouth the moment you were out of sight. His hand slipped between your thighs, finding your panties soaked. He teased you for your floral cotton panties, moving the fabric aside to shove a finger inside your soaked cunt.

Raymond lifted you off of your feet, and you ended up in his arms, your pussy stuffed to the brim with his thick cock. 

“Fuck, this is a tight little cunt,” he puffed into your neck. Hot breath fanning over your skin. “You’ve been a good girl, huh? How many guys did you fuck behind a bar so far?”

“No one,” you held tight onto Raymond as he slowly rocked into you. “Only you.”

“You’re so good for me, love,” he whispered in your ear as he mercilessly battered your cunt. He was not a gentle lover any longer. Raymond fucked up into you, all the while holding your body safe in his arms. “I’m gonna ruin you.”

“Aw, baby love,” he crashed his lips onto yours to silence your moans. “You met the right man to ruin you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and started to move your hips.

“Ruin me. Do it. I’m done being the good girl.”

“Why did you leave without us?” One of your friends asked. Janice walked inside your shared hotel room, smirking as you were reading another book. “Y/N we are on vacation. Stop reading and go out there. There is a whole new world to explore.”

“Yeah. Maybe you’ll get some dick too if you stop hiding,” your other friend snapped at you. She didn’t get lucky last night and tried to let her anger out on you. Chanel always gets lucky. Just not last night.

“Oh, I think you will have enough fun for all of us,” you hid that you were the one getting a perfect dick last night. Well, they wouldn’t have believed you. You never take a risk. This includes fucking a stranger behind a bar. “Don’t forget to wrap it before you let any dick get near you.”

 “It’s their job,” Janice huffed. “I only need my lipstick and nothing else.”

You bit your tongue. Last night you were the one making sure that you didn’t take a bigger risk. Raymond was all too eager to fill you, but you insisted on protection. Even though you were a horny mess wanting nothing more than to feel him bare inside of you.

“Have fun reading,” Janice snapped at you. “We are going to meet up with some girls we met last night and tonight, we’re going back to the bar. Tonight, I’ll get lucky and fuck a British guy!”

“Don’t wait for us to come back today. You’re no fun to be around since you and Ransom broke up,” Chanel added. A low blow to your fragile heart.

With your friends gone, you had the time to enjoy the city. You explored the usual spots tourists would seek out and ended up in a nice little café to have a break.

It was close to your hotel, and you could enjoy the sun as long as you wanted to. 

At least no one tried to hit on you here or called you boring for enjoying your tea and biscuits.

“This must be fate,” a familiar voice said. Raymond stopped short in his tracks when he recognized you. “What brings you here?”

“I was—” You licked your lips at the sight of Raymond. Today he was wearing a soft camel tan shawl cardigan and a skinny burgundy tie over his dark wash jeans. He looked as perfect as ever when he claimed the empty chair on your table, “having a break from exploring town.”

“Sightseeing,” he nodded thoughtfully. “I see.” Raymond eyed you up and down in your simple shirt, cardigan, and a pair of worn-out jeans. “I could give you the Smith tour to show you all the secret spots no tourist ever saw.”

“Smith tour?” You wrinkled your forehead.

“That’s my surname, sweetness,” he smirked and nodded at the waitress to order tea and biscuits himself. “Do you want to go on that tour with me?”

“Sure,” you said a little too fast. He was still a stranger, but you let him fuck you twice last night. What else could he want? You were sure he wouldn’t hurt you and having the chance to fuck him again had you already dripping. “I’d love to see more than the usual spots.”

You didn’t see much of town. All Raymond showed you was his large, luxurious estate where he lives by himself. And you didn’t see much of it either. 

Raymond had you pinned to his mattress; his cock buried balls deep inside of your dripping cunt moments after he guided you inside his home. 

“Shit, look at you,” he purred before he claimed your lips in a heated kiss. “I could get used to having you like this. Underneath me, filled with my cock.” He kissed you again, softer this time. “Bare.”

He rocked his hips at a slow pace, dragging his thick cock along your walls. Raymond smirked as you dug your fingertips into his back.

“Raymond,” you whimpered his name. “Please.”

“Fuck, say my name again,” he buried his face in your neck to nip at your soft spot. “Now,” Raymond growled your name and gave you a particularly hard thrust. “Sweetness.”

“Raymond.”

“Again,” he snapped his hips into yours. “NOW!”

“RAYMOND!” You screamed his name on the top of your lungs. “RAYMOND!” You chanted it like a prayer. “Please.”

“Fucking take it,” Raymond whispered in your ear. “You’re meant to lie underneath me, my cock in your sweet pussy.” He slowly fucked into you, taking his time to enjoy having you again. “All I was thinking about was your cunt. I could smell you on me all day.”

Your arousal coated his cock with every thrust. It soaked the sheets underneath you, ruining the fine fabric you admired before you ended up on his bed. 

“You’re mine now,” he threatened, his voice a deep growl as he kept on fucking you into the mattress. “Say it.”

He stopped moving and stared at you underneath him. “Say it!”

“’m yours, Ray…”

He kissed you again, sweet but dirty. His tongue delved into your mouth, tasting the strawberries you ate earlier.

“Yes. Fuck.” You started to clench around him and tremble underneath Raymond. “Please.”

“Ohhh…fuck,” he thrusted into you, ignoring that you cried out his name. Raymond simply fucked you through your high, rhythm never faltering as you threw your head left and right. It sounded cliché, or like bad porn. But right at that moment it was all you could do because he just felt too good inside of your body. “That’s it.”

“Come inside of me, please,” you pleaded. “NOW!”

Fuck…He thought and exploded inside of your quivering cunt. Raymond didn’t stop. He trusted in and out of you, making an even bigger mess of his sheets. 

“That was,” you sighed when he slipped out of you to lie next to you. Raymond panted, and you patted his chest when he gasped for air.

“I know, sweetness.”

“Thank you for making my vacation much more interesting,” you laughed as he crawled back on top of you to kiss you softly and gently. 

“Thank you for making my shitty week better.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Smith.”

His shower was amazing. Just like the rest of his home. It was huge, and the rain showerhead was something else.

Not that you got the chance to enjoy it much. The warm water barely had the time to run down your body before Raymond was all over you again.

He stood behind you to nip at your earlobe with his teeth. His skilled hands cupped your tits, and you fell back against his chest.

“Still not enough?” He chuckled at your words. “You're insatiable.

“You’re just too cute to ignore.” He watched you turn around to cup his face to kiss him. “What are you up to, sweetness?”

“I’d love to fuck you again,” you purred his name and ran your hands over his chest. “What are you up to?”

Raymond smirked, and you knew you were in for a rougher treatment. He twirled you around, barking orders at you. “Hands against the wall.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re playing with fire,” he was on you again, to manipulate your body. He gripped your hip with one hand and guided his weeping cock into your dripping pussy. “But I’ll not stop you from being a perfect little cockslut for me.”

You hissed but welcomed his length like an old friend. “You feel too good inside of me, is all.”

“Yeah,” he kissed your neck. “How good? Good enough to spend the rest of your vacation with me.”

“Yes.” You said without hesitation. To hell with your friends, sightseeing, and biscuits. All you wanted to do is spend time impaled on Raymond’s cock.

“I knew it,” he breathed into your neck. “You’re perfect.”

Raymond nipped at your neck while slinging his arms around your waist.

“My little lost tourist.” He slowly but steadily pumped into you. “Lucky me getting inside this sweet body.”

“Oh, yes,” The warm water gently rained down on you and Raymond, and your wet bodies slid easily against one another. “Fuck, please.”

“Same, sweetness,” he growled as you started to push back onto his length. Raymond was close to losing all control. He pressed you against the wall, pumping into you with all the strength he had left in him. 

You slammed the palms of your hand against the shower wall feeling your high ripple through your body. You were panting heavily, and your knees buckled when he emptied himself inside of you. 

“No, you don’t understand,” Raymond grunted into the phone. He watched you turn around in your sleep to snuggle into his pillow. “I want you to tell me where to pick her things up. Y/N wants to spend the rest of her vacation with me, not you.”

He groaned as your friends bombarded him with questions. His patience was wearing thin, and he was close to sending one of his problem solvers to get your belongings.

“Listen, all you need to know is that she’s safe with me. No…I won’t send you a picture of her.” Cursing loudly, he looked at you.

“Give me the phone,” you yawned, and rubbed your tired eyes. “They won’t believe you, Ray.”

“Fine,” he handed you your phone, waiting for you to confirm that he’s not some psycho kidnapper holding you hostage. Even though, his cock twitched when he imagined keeping you at his home forever.

“Janice, relax,” you tried to calm your friend. “I met Raymond two days ago at the bar. Yeah, where you left me all alone. We met again at a café, and I spent the last two days with him at his home. I texted and called you, but you didn’t answer so, I believed you don’t give a shit about me and if I’m still alive.”

Janice muttered into the phone, but you didn’t care. You told her to pack your things and hand them to whoever Raymond will send to them.

One week later you sat on his couch, snuggled into one of the blankets he offered to you. “You’ve got a nice home,” you said and smiled. It pained you that in not a week you had to leave this wonderful place and the man owning it. “Maybe I can come back here one day.”

“Or,” he sat down next to you and placed his hand on your thigh, “I just keep you here forever.” Raymond nuzzled his face in your neck. “I heard you quit your job, left your boyfriend, and are looking for adventure.”

“What? I-“ you spluttered. “How did you find out?”

“Your friends are rather talkative,” he shrugged and moved his hand between your legs. “I got a big home, and a good job waiting for you. I know this is sudden, but I’d love to keep you around. What do you say?”

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[brachiochannie]

lip gloss (sohn youngjae x male reader)

wherein eric tastes someone's lip gloss… and gets his lips glossed sub bottom eric sohn, dom top male reader, smut, unprotected sex, facial, public sex (they do it in an alley), set in lip gloss era, fucking with a stranger  1,314 words

eric doesn't hear his members calling for him. the director of their lip gloss music video who was fuming throughout the shoot is now calling out his name with a concerned voice. where could he possibly be at almost an hour past midnight? well, he's too blissed out and overstimulated to care about his surroundings. not with how you deliciously drill his cock in this damn alley where anyone could see you both in your nakedness. how did he end up here anyway? getting fucked and bred by someone he doesn't even know? 

it started with the stares. eric catches you staring at him from the side as their group films the choreography of their latest song. he doesn't notice at first but he stares at you back a little bit too much that he makes mistakes in the choreography. a bit too early or a second late, and even missing his damn line he practiced countless of times even when they were in korea. how dare you be a beautiful distraction to his performance? eric throbs inside his briefs because how could you be so tall and tan, muscles and veins bulging in all the right areas. his sharp eyes meet your flirty, mischievous ones. damn, did you just wink at him? fuck, and that damn smile. how did he become so weak. and fuck, his eyes don't lie. that fucking bulge. shit, you were packing down there. a wet dream come true! one's this fucking shoots gets over with, he swears to approach you and get your number and offer to suck your dicㅡ

“cut!”

eric jumps up. shit. has he missed his cue again?  is this his third take already? fourth? fifth? he gulps, knees shaking in dread. he has never seen the director this fuming. 

“enough! we’ll just do this again tomorrow!” he screams in frustration, angry eyes never leaving eric. head bowed down in shame, eric stands in place while trying to ignore the whispers about his performance during the shoot. he sighs. how dare you be so illegally dashing that it distracts him? the type of face and body that he'd never stop ogling at. actually, he likes to see you again. he raises his head and sees you staring back at him. that fucking smirk. god, he wanted to slap that smirk out of your face. eric is annoyed about how satisfied you may feel after what your effortlessly dashing looks caused. he gets flustered as you gesture him to follow you before you slowly disappear into the dark alley. 

he feels his heart beat faster than usual. eric looks around and finds everyone already gone. maybe they're on their way to their hotel to spend the night. his cock throbs once again in his briefs. shit. is this what he thinks it is? he'd find it useful considering the number of times he was screamed at recently. eric conjures different positions of him taking your cock that he doesn't notice himself walking in the dark alley. there's barely any light except for the faint orange glow of the lone street lamp illuminating the area. 

he finds you leaning back against the wall. that fucking subtle smirk still doesn't leave your face it infuriates eric. you just stare at him sensually, taking in his anxious yet excited form. his nipples stand erect while his shorts barely hide the outline of his raging boner. eric stands right in front of you, your breaths meeting each other's lips. unable to stand it any longer, eric pulls you down by the neck and clashes his lips into yours. your hands immediately traveled to his waist and his butt cheeks, which you roughly squeezed. eric moans into the kiss as your fingers found its way inside his warm hole to prod his prostate. his eyes rolled back enjoying the stretch brought by your digits. his hands pull you closer to him before he grinds his clothed crotch against yours. his lips moved hungrily almost like he's been deprived of kisses. 

“fuck!” he whimpers as soon as you pull away and press his face against the wall. eric, in his poor attempt to keep quiet, clamps his lips shut. he can't make noise. not in what seems to be a neighborhood of sleeping people in this late hour. plus, he's just a foreigner allowed by the locals to film his group's music video so wouldn't being noisy, let alone being fucked in their public space be unethical? the demon in his head chuckles darkly, telling him to give in and have his ass fucked until it's full of cum. 

eric fails to keep silent as he let out a loud gasp upon the intrusion of your thick cock in his hole. “shit!” he cries out loud, before shutting his lips with his palm. although he has prepped his hole earlier in the hotel room, it wasn't enough to accommodate your girth that it hurts. but it hurts so good that he greedily moves his ass back to get all of your cock stuffed inside him. you chuckle, yanking him backwards by the hair and stuffing his mouth with your fingers before drilling him with your cock. 

eric's knees buckle from having his prostate abused at such a beastly speed. he swears he'd fall to the ground if not for you holding him up by his hair. you pummel your cock deeper, not giving him time to breathe. he manages to pull your hand away from his mouth before crying out in arousal. “shit! more!” was he loud? did anyone hear him? will anyone get out of their house and find him getting pounded into a slutty mess by a stranger? maybe. does he care enough? no, as seen by how greedy his hole tightens around you and by how desperate he moves his hips back as you thrust into him, as well as how he carnally moans whenever his stomach bulges. 

fuck. eric's back arches naturally, making the bulges more prominent in his stomach. his tears stain his face as his poor prostate gets stabbed hard again and again. his dick leaks more generously from the way your breath hits his back and how you play and twists his nipples, not to mention how he's being fucked deliciously by a stranger in this dark alley. finally, something ticked off his list of sexual fantasies. 

“fuck! yes!" eric moans like a slut as he orgasms like a faucet, squirting messily all over the place. he whimpers, his weak legs shaking as your thrusts don't stop; they get harder and deeper that he cums not long after. his mind goes hazy, getting too cockdrunk to care whether he gets caught. 

“fuck,” you moan as your thrusts lose rhythm, with your cock throbbing harder than usual. you pull out from eric before manhandling him to kneel in front of you. “shit!” you curse as you fist your cock desperately. eric, like a slut, sticks his tongue out and looks at you with lidded eyes. he looks so fucked out with his hair a mess, his makeup ruined by his sweat, tears, and drool, as he plants small kisses on your leaking tip. 

“fuck!” you grunt as you finally orgasm. your cock shoots warm cum all over eric's face. eric moans as he feels the warm fluids spraying on him. you empty the remains of your orgasm, glazing his lips with your cum before giving a few thrusts inside his mouth. you collect yourselves, with you pulling out of his lips and eric wiping the cum on his face thanks to the tissues in the pocket of his shorts. you immediately tucked yourself in your shorts before helping eric get in his briefs and shorts. 

“hey, pretty.” you cup his face before leaving a peck on his lips. 

“see you around.” you wink before walking away. 

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

where’s your doppelgänger? | s.r. x liaison!fem reader

you could never memorize the train system, no matter how many years you’ve taken it. you’ll be stuck staring at the maps for twenty minutes and not remember which way leads uptown. but when you’re with spencer you could be blissfully tugged along as he seamlessly weaves through the crowds of commuters, making sure you’re tucked close to his back.

“so we’re gonna take the red line up to jefferson street then the green line all the way to apple road.” both of you stood near the back of the platform, watching strangers scurry like ants to and fro this afternoon.

“that guy reminds me of hotch,” leaning in close to spencer’s side as you pointed a subtle finger towards the well dressed man. his dark hair was nearly combed, his navy blue suit was well pressed and his posture was stick straight while he held a book in one hand.

“could be his doppelgänger. statistically everyone should have one to three look a likes. your eyes see the person you know but also identify the new traits that form the other face, helping you separate the two.” his mouth spewing out these facts easily from his lips as you gazed his profile.

an unclear intercom announced something just as your first train pulled into its platform. spencer lead both of you to a pair of forward facing seats, you beside the window and him next to the walkway. “should take twenty minutes if uninterrupted,” spencer estimated.

the first few minutes neither spoke, just let the noisy tracks sing their song. “what do you think your other selves are doing?” shoulders bumping into each other with the swaying of the cart.

spencer’s thumb rubbed along your knuckles as your joined digits sat atop his thigh. “maybe one got to fulfill my childhood dream.” his low voice got particularly swallowed from a loud screech. you leaned in a bit closer and raised your voice to ask, “which is?”

spencer ducked his chin to his chest as he mumbled and you had to ask for him to repeat it. “a- a cowboy,” his eyes partially catching yours.

you couldn’t help the coo that slipped free, “now that would be a sight.” softly giggling at the pastel hue warming spencer’s cheeks. that caused spencer to chuckle sheepishly, “yeah. don’t think i’d be hired.” nervously he scratched behind his ear.

you let your eyes trail over his pointed features, “loved to see you in a hat though. bet you’ll look ever dashing.” freely flirting and enjoying the flushed pink on his apples under the fluorescent lights.

“what about your second one?” nudging his knee to redirect the conversation. spencer hummed in thought, the wheels filled most of the noise along with someone sneezing and a baby giving a small whine. “maybe a professor, like my mom. but i think my intelligence with all my doppelgänger’s would be lower than mine.”

“pure perfection as your mother would say.” giving a squeeze to his hand as your bodies moved with the stopping train. spencer lead both of you out and towards the second train, “got about five minutes before it arrives.” he lead both of you to a bench.

“i kinda wish one of my doppelgängers is living somewhere peacefully in europe. always a small dream of mine that i don’t know when i’ll ever peruse.” letting your mouth speak your thoughts openly. you leaned your head against spencer shoulder, a dreamy gaze filtering over the well maintained but still slightly dirty subway.

“i think one of yours would be a florist. probably somewhere in italy where many people visit you.” spencer spoke softly as he gave your joined hands a slight sway. both of you just tucked away into shadow as you wait.

“lovers would buy bouquets and friends would buy singles. family’s would buy many vases and i would wonder if it’s for something happy or somber. i’ll get to see small glimpses of people’s lives or make my own story for them.” creating this alternative world that you personally could live, or someone similar to you is living life in the present.

“another one could possibly be a journalist, or you’ll still be a liaison, just in a different department. you’re very good at dealing with the press, talking with people sincerely. you’d always make sure the pure truth was told and- what?”

spencer stopped talking as his eyes locked with yours, his brows scrunching at the front. “did- did i say something?”

you could feel your lips stretching into a lovesick smile as you stared at your boyfriend. “i- i just really wanna kiss you, but we’re in public and i know how you feel about pda-“

“i’ll allow it this time.” “…wait, really?”

spencer smiled shyly, “yeah. besides i know you’re not gonna jump me here. a kiss isn’t bad.” he just shrugged as his eyes bounced around.

with your free left hand your palm cupped spencer’s cheek to turn his face in your direction. “i love you a lot, like a crazy amount.” letting your thumb smooth the skin under his eye. you leaned in quickly to press your lips to spencer’s, staying for a moment then pulling away just as you hear the screeching of wheels on tracks.

“best get moving before they leave without us.” taking the lead on moving the two of you onto the chariot towards your museum date.

[onmykneesforstraykids]

DESIRE- ENHYPEN NIKI FANIFC

GENRE- SMUT MDNI!

CW- kissing, eating out, p in v sex , unprotected sex (never!), dirty talk, swearing, dom!niki sub!reader.

WC- 1.5k?? Idk

authors note- guys this lit took like 3 days to make so I hope u enjoy <3 sorry if I made some grammar mistakes ‼️‼️‼️

Y/N shivered, pulling her oversized hoodie tighter around herself. The attic of Miyeon’s grandmother’s house was freezing, dust motes dancing in the single beam of Miyeon’s phone flashlight. The air hung thick with the scent of aged paper, dried flowers, and something vaguely…musty.

“Are you sure about this, Miyeon?” Y/N asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Miyeon, ever the thrill-seeker, grinned, her eyes glittering with excitement. “Of course! This book has been in my family for generations. Grandma swears it’s real, and she’s seen some weird stuff in her time.” She tapped the ancient, leather-bound tome laid open on a rickety table between them. The pages were filled with strange symbols and even stranger Latin phrases. “Besides,” she added, winking, “Wouldn’t it be awesome to summon a real vampire? Think of the stories!”

Y/N wasn't so sure about the awesome part. She loved a good story as much as the next person, but actually summoning a vampire? It felt like tempting fate. Still, Miyeon was her best friend, and Y/N had a weakness for her adventurous spirit, even when it leaned towards the batshit crazy.

They’d been researching the book for weeks, deciphering the rituals and ingredients. Tonight was the night they were supposed to perform the summoning.

Following the instructions meticulously, Miyeon sprinkled dried herbs around a drawn circle on the dusty floor. Y/N nervously lit the black candles placed at each point. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows, making the already creepy attic feel ten times more so.

“Okay, Y/N, you ready?” Miyeon asked, her voice a mix of excitement and apprehension.

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. “As I’ll ever be.”

Together, they began to chant the Latin incantation from the book. Their voices echoed in the confined space, the unfamiliar words feeling foreign and awkward on their tongues. As they reached the climax of the ritual, a gust of wind suddenly swept through the attic, extinguishing the candles and plunging them into darkness.

Y/N gasped, clutching Miyeon’s arm. “What was that?!”

Miyeon fumbled for her phone, turning on the flashlight. The beam danced around the room, revealing…nothing. The herbs were undisturbed, the book lay open, and the only sound was the frantic thumping of Y/N's heart.

They waited, holding their breath, for what felt like an eternity. But nothing happened. No bloodcurdling screams, no shadowy figures, no dashing, immortal beings gracing them with their presence.

Miyeon finally let out a disappointed sigh. “Well, that was a bust. Grandma probably just made the whole thing up. I mean, a real vampire? Come on.”

Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. “Yeah, probably. Maybe it’s just an old folk tale.” She was secretly glad that the whole thing was a dud. As fun as the idea of a vampire was, she was more than happy to keep them as just that - an idea.

They blew out the imaginary dust from their clothes, packed up their things, and left the attic, dismissing the experience as a silly, albeit creepy, adventure. Little did Y/N know, the ritual had worked. It just hadn’t manifested in the way they expected.

The next day, Y/N felt…off. She couldn’t explain it. She was on edge, restless, with an inexplicable hunger gnawing at her. A hunger that wasn’t for food. She tried to shake it off, chalking it up to the late night and the overall weirdness of the previous evening.

She was working at her part-time job at a cute little bookstore downtown. The familiar scent of old paper and coffee usually soothed her, but today, it did nothing to quell the unease churning within her.

As she was shelving books in the romance section, she felt a presence behind her. A presence so intense it made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She turned around and froze.

Standing there, leaning casually against a bookshelf, was a guy she’d never seen before. He was tall, with dark, piercing eyes that seemed to see right through her. His black hair was artfully tousled, and he wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans, but something about his presence radiated an aura of power and…danger.

“Can I help you find something?” Y/N asked, her voice a little shaky.

He smiled, a slow, predatory smile that sent a shiver down her spine. “I think I already have.” His gaze locked onto hers, and it felt like she was the only person in the entire store. “Tell me, what is your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeated, the way he said her name made it sound like a whispered promise. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

Y/N blushed, flustered by his directness. She had never encountered someone so strikingly attractive and so…intense.

“And what’s yours?” she managed to ask.

“Ni-ki.”

They stood there for a moment, locked in a silent battle of wills. Y/N found herself drawn to him, mesmerized by his dark eyes and the undeniable magnetism that radiated from him. She felt an unfamiliar pull, a deep, primal desire she couldn't explain.

“I feel like I know you from somewhere,” Y/N blurted out, without thinking.

Ni-ki’s smile widened, “Perhaps you do.”

He then walked towards the exit of the store, with a last glance at Y/N he said, “I must be going now, but I’m sure we will see each other again.”

Y/N continued to watch him leave. She could see that many people were looking at him as he was walking, and who could blame them? He was attractive.

After he left the bookstore, Y/N wasn’t herself. She couldn’t get Ni-ki off of her mind. She wanted more. She wanted more of him.

The next few weeks were a blur. Y/N saw Ni-ki everywhere. At the grocery store, at the park, even walking down her street. Each encounter was brief, charged with unspoken tension and a palpable sense of anticipation. He would smile, say something cryptic, and then disappear, leaving her breathless and wanting more.

One evening, as Y/N was walking home from work, she found Ni-ki waiting for her outside her apartment building.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and husky. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. “Ni-ki. What are you doing here?”

He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. The streetlights cast long shadows, making his features appear even more dramatic. “I think you know.”

He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through her. Y/N shivered, not from cold, but from pure, unadulterated desire.

“I feel this overwhelming desire for you that I can't control, and I can tell you feel the same. Is it weird? I understand if you think I’m crazy.” Y/N told him, her cheeks turning a rosy pink.

“I am the same as you, even weirder. I feel this overwhelming desire for you that I can't control especially that you are the one who summoned me.” Ni-ki leaned down, his breath ghosting across her lips. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But know that I won’t be able to fight what I feel for long.”

Y/N closed her eyes, giving in to the intoxicating pull. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted him closer. She touched his face slowly while gazing into his eyes.

She leaned in and whispered, "I don't want you to leave."

Ni-ki’s eyes darkened, his desire mirroring her own. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. It was a slow, deliberate kiss, tasting of promises and unspoken needs. Y/N melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding. Ni-ki’s hand slipped beneath her shirt, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. Y/N gasped, her body trembling with anticipation.

“Let’s go inside,” Ni-ki murmured against her mouth.

Without a word, Y/N nodded and fumbled for her keys. He was not going to be leaving her apartment tonight like the last few weeks. They walked into her apartment, and Ni-ki shut the door behind them, locking it with a decisive click that echoed in the sudden silence. He didn't want anyone interrupting their night.

He pinned Y/N against the door, his body pressed against hers. The hunger she felt intensified, a burning need that threatened to consume her.

“Ni-ki,” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

He kissed her again, harder this time, his tongue exploring the depths of her mouth. His hands roamed over her body, igniting a fire that spread through her veins.

He was definitely not a normal man, and she was here for it.

“take it off” Ni-ki ordered.

Y/N obliged, unbuttoning her white wrinkled shirt, revealing her white lacy bra.

“so pretty, I can’t wait to taste you, you better be begging by the of this.”

Y/N whimpered. Before she could even blurt out the sinful words that wanted to come out of her mouth he picked her up with a sudden motion, Y/N yelped, Ni-ki took off her blue Levi jeans that Miyeon had gotten her for her bday. Then her pink lace panties.

“beautiful”. Ni-ki murmured.

He delved in, without any warning, full on making out with her cunt, pressing his thumb on her clit, breathing heavily against her, Y/N whined, groaned, feeling her waves of orgasm coming through, a knot forming in her stomach, he kept on going, like there was no tomorrow, slowly, painfully adding digits to her fluttering hole which increased the lewd experience. “pretty girl let go for me…”

“f-fuck!- m’ gonna cum!- it feels so Ah!-“

And with that, the waves of pleasure crashed out of her, arousal seeping out of her abused pussy, soft moans and giggles coming out of Ni-ki’s mouth, as Y/n tugs onto his hair. “Mmm.. taste so fucking good” he said licking all her juices.

“Good girl..m’gonna fill you up now.” Ni-ik then jumped up, the clink of his belt sounding more obvious as he unbuckles it, his jeans falling to the floor, the aching twitching cock then springing out of his boxers leaking with Precum at the tip. Y/n looked down, not because she wanted it (well partly was) but how big, monstrous it looked “how’s that thing gonna fit” she cried out in annoyance “m’gonna make it work, turn over, bend over for me.”

Y/n obeyed before lying in a bent over display for ni-ki, spreading out on mattress, ass facing up. “Mkay…” Ni-ki walks up to her, holding his fat cock in his hand before rubbing it in between her folds “can’t wait to breed this tiny whole” he slowly, agonisingly pushes in, y/n groaning in pain and pleasure, he started thrusting slowly, rhythmically into her, both breathing heavily in unison, he started to pick up the pace once y/n adjusted, both their orgasms arriving near

“Fuck baby” Ni-ki groans, his fangs in display when biting his lips “imma Cum, fuck fuck fuck” and that said, he came undone, it wasn’t even funny, his thick hot seed spurted out with such a large amount, y/n quickly catched up to him as she reached her climax with such a needy fucking whine “ahhha!-”

both slowly collapsed on the wornt out bed that was screaming ‘imma break’ after the intense makeout

“dang, never..knew I was gonna be fucked by a vampire”

“mm.. well why not go in for round two?…” Ni-ki laughed breathlessly “just kidding..” “or am I?……heheh”

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